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Widow of CoL Jamei Warren Sever 









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, THE BERTRAMS 2 vols. 

THE WARDEN , 1 vol. 

BincHfeBTid iovfiitks ' 2 vols* 

HMfrht RiCHMOttID .....>..-.... 2 vols. 




ORLBT #AftM •...*...#.... 3 vols. 

RACHEL RAY 2 vols. 







'HE SMEW HE WAS RIQST * </ »Vola. 



THE GOLDEN LlON 6V CFKAI^PElftti . . . . . 1vol. 


LADY ANNA , 4 . . <, .« . . . 2 vols. 












, 1871. 

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Thi'Righi 0/ Trcuulatihn u ru9rv$d. 

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^viAR ^0.1883 


AUG 20 IMii 


:hapter I. 

— II. 

— IIL 

— IV. 

— V. 

— VI. 

— VII. 


— IX. 

— X. 

— XL 

— XIL 


— XIV. 

— XV. 

— XVI. 

— XVII. 


— XIX. 

— XX. 

Sir Harry Hotspur 

Our Heroine 

Lord Alfred's Courtship 

Vacillation .... 

George Hotspur . 

The Ball in Bruton Street . 

Lady AUringham 

Airey Force 

" I know what you are " 

Mr. Hart and Captain Stubber 

Mrs. Morton 

The Hunt becomes hot 

I will not desert him . 

Pertinacity .... 

Cousin George is hard pressed 

Sir Harry's Return 

"Let us Try" . 

Good Advice 

The new Smithy 

Cousin George's Success , 












1 46 






CHAPTER XXI. Emily Hotspui^s Sermon 

— XXII. George Hotspur yields . 

— XXIII. I shall never be Married 
~ XXIV. The End . . 



Sir Harry Hotspur. 

Sm Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite was a 
mighty person in Cumberland, and one who well 
understood of what nature were the duties, and of what 
sort the magnificence, which his position as a great 
English commoner required of him. He had twenty 
thousand a year derived from land. His forefathers 
bad owned the same property in Cumberland for 
nearly four centuries, and an estate nearly as large in 
Durham for more than a century and a half. He had 
married an earl's daughter, and had always lived 
among men and women not only of high rank, but 
also of high character. He had kept race-horses when 
be was young, as noblemen and gentlemen then did 
keep them, with no view to profit, calculating fairly 
their cost as a part of his annual outlay, and thinking 
fliat it was the proper thing to do for the improvemewt 


of horses and for the amnsement of the people, 
had been in Parliament, but had made no figm*e th( 
and had given it up. He still kept his house in Bru 
Street, and always spent a month or two in Lond< 
But the life that he led was led at Hmnblethwaite, 2 
there he was a great man, with a great domain aroi 
him, — with many tenants, with a world of dependa 
among whom he spent his wealth freely, saving lit 
but lavishing nothing that was not his own to lavi 
— understanding that his enjoyment was to come fr 
the comfort and respect of others, for whose welfa 
as he understood it, the good things of this world I 
been bestowed upon him. He was a proud man, w 
but few intimacies, — with a few dear friendships wh 
were the solace of his life,; — altogether gracious in 
speech, if it were not for an apparent bashftiln 
among strangers; never assuming aught, deferri 
much to others outwardly, and showing his pr 
chiefly by a certain impalpable noit me tangercy wh 
just sufficed to make itself felt and obeyed at the £ 
approach of any personal freedom. He was a hai 
some man, — if an old liian near to seventy may 
handsome, — with grey hair, and bright, keen eyes, a 
arched eyebrows, with a well-cut eagle nose, anc 
small mouth, and a short dimpled chin. He was unc 
the middle height, but nevertheless commanded att( 
tion by his appearance. He wore no beard sav€ 
slight grey whisker, which was cut away before 



cached his chin. He was strongly made, bnt not 
tout, and was hale and active for his age. 

Such was Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite. 
[he account of Lady Elizabeth, his wife, may be much 
ihorter. She was known, — where she was known, — 
amply as Sir Harry's wife. He indeed was one of 
hose men of whom it may be said that everything 
ippertaining to them takes its importance from the 
act of its being theirs. Lady Elizabeth was a good 
voman, a good wife, and a good mother, and was 
wenty years younger than her husband. He had been 
brty-five years old when he had married her, and she, 
sven yet, had not forgotten the deference which was 
lue to his age. 

Two years before the time at which our story will 
)egin, a great sorrow, an absolutely crushing grief, 
lad fallen upon the House of Humblethwaite. An 
)nly son had died just as he had reached his majority. 
Vhen the day came on which all Humblethwaite and 
he surrounding villages were to have been told to 
ejoice and make merry because another man of the 
lotspurs was ready to take the reins of the house as 
oon as his father should have been gathered to his 
ithers, the poor lad lay a-dying, while his mother 
linistered by his bedside, and the Baronet was told 
J the physician — who had been brought from London 
-that there was no longer for V\\m ^iv's Vo^^ 'Ccva5L\i& 


should leave a male heir at Humblethwaite to inhc 
his name and his honours. 

For months it was thought that Lady Elizab( 
would follow her boy. Sir Harry bore the bl 
bravely, though none who do not understand t 
system well can conceive how the natural grief of t 
father was increased by the disappointment which h 
fallen upon the head of the house. But the old m; 
bore it well, making but few audible moans, sheddi 
no tears, altering in very little the habits of life; s 
spending money, because it was good for others tl 
it should be spent, and only speaking of his son wh 
it was necessary for him to allude to those alter 
arrangements as to the family property which it in 
necessary that he should make. But still he was 
changed man, as those perceived who watched h 
closest. Gloudesdale the butler knew well in what 
was changed, as did old Hesketh the groom, a 
Gilsby the gamekeeper. He had never been given 
much talk, but was now more silent than of yore, 
horses, dogs, and game there was no longer any me 
tion whatever made by the Baronet. He was still cc 
stant with Mr. Lanesby, the steward, because it y^ 
his duty to know everything that was done on t 
property; but even Mr. Lanesby would acknowled 
that, as to actual improvements, — the commenceme 
of new work in the hope of future returns, the Baroi 
was not at all the man he had been. How was 


possible that he should be the man he had been when 
his life was so nearly gone, and that other life had 
gone also, which was to have been the renewal and 
continuation of his own? 

Whe9 the blow fell, it became Sir Hany's impera- 
tive duty to make up his mind what he would do with 
his property. As regarded the two estates, they were 
DOW absolutely y every acre of them, at his own dis- 
posal. He had one child left him, a daughter, — in 
whom, it is hoped, the reader may be induced to take 
some interest, and with her to feel some sympathy, for 
ihe will be the person with whom the details of this 
little stoiy must most be concerned; and he had a 
male heir, who must needs inherit the title of the 
fiunily, one George Hotspur, — not a nephew, for Sir 
Hatry had never had a brother, but the son of a first 
cousin who had not himself been much esteemed at 

NowSirHany was a man who, in such a condition 
as this in which he was now placed, would mainly be 
guided by his ideas of duty. For a month or two he 
said not a word to any one, not even to his own 
lawyer, though he himself had made a will, a tem- 
poraxy will, duly witnessed by Mr. Lanesby and an- 
other, so that the ownership of the property should 
not be adjusted simply by the chance direction of law 
in the event of his own sudden demise; but his mind 
vas doubtless much burdened with the ^\ib\^^:X. ^^^^^^ 


should he discharge this fresh responsibility ^ 
rested on him? While his boy had lived, th 
sibility of his property had had nothing foi 
charms. All was to go to the young Harry, 
a matter of course; and it was only necessar 
to take care that every acre should descend t 
not only unimpaired by him in value, but a 
what increased. Provision for his widow ar 
girl had already been made before he had vei 
matrimony, — provision sufficient for many , 
Fortune so far favoured him. But that an e 
should have all the femily land, — one, though 
sons should have been given to him as to 
antfthat that one should have it unencumben 
had had it from his father, — this was to him 
law of his being. And he would have tai 
son, had already begun to teach him when 
blow came, that all this was to be given to 1 
that he might put it into his own belly, or w 
his own back, or even spend it as he might 
self, but that he might so live as to do hi 
maintaining that order of gentlehood in Eng 
which England had become — so thought Sir 
the proudest and the greatest and the y 

But now he had no son, and yet the duty i 
to him of maintaining his order. It would 
have been better for him, it would certainly h; 





easier 9 had some settlemetit or family entail fixed all: 
&ings for him. Those who knew him well personally, 
kt did not know the affairs of his family, declared 
among themselves that Sir Harry would take care that 
the property went with the title. A marriage might be 
arranged. There could be nothing to object to a 
marriage between second cousins. At any rate Sir 
Harry Hotspur was certainly not the man to separate 
the property from the title. But they who knew the 
fuxdly, and especially that branch of the family from 
which George Hotspur came, declared that Sir Harry 
would never give his daughter to such a one as was 
this cousin. And if not his daughter, then neither 
would he give to such a scapegrace either Humblethwaite 
in Cumberland or Scarrowby in Durham. There did 
exist a party who said that Sir Harry would divide the 
property, but they who held such an opinion certainly 
knew very little of Sir Harry's social or political tenets. 
I Any such division was the one thing which he surely 
would not effect. 

When twelve months had passed after the death 
of Sir Harry's son, George Hotspur had been at 
Humblethwaite and had gone, and Sir Harry's will had 
been made. He had left everything to his daughter, 
and had only stipulated that her husband, should she 
marry, should take the name of Hotspur. He had 
decided, that should his daughter, as was probable, 
marry within his lifetime, he could then. tnaJfL^ h(Vc^ 


(Settlements he pleased, even to the changing of the 
tenor of his will, should he think fit to change it. 
Should he die and leave her still a spinster, he would- 
trust to her in everything. Not being a man of 
mystery, he told his wife and his daughter what he 
had done, — and what he still thought that he possibly 
might do; and being also a man to whom any sus-^' 
picion of injustice was odious , he desired his attorney ' 
to make known to George Hotspur what had been' ■ 
settled. And In order that this blow to Cousin George 
might be lightened, — Cousin George having in conver- 
sation acknowledged to a few debts, — an immediate 
present was made to him of four thousand pounds, 
and double that amount was assured to him at the 

' Baronet's death. 

The reader may be sure that the Baronet had heard 
many things respecting Cousin George which he did 
not like. To him personally it would have been in- 
finitely preferable that the title and the estates should 
have gone together, than that his own daughter should 
be a great heiress. That her outlook into the world was 
fair and full of promise of prosperity either way , was 
clear enough. Twenty thousand a year would not be 
necessary to make her a happy woman. And then it 
was to him a manifest and a sacred religion that to 
no man or to no woman were appointed the high 
pinnacles of fortune simply that that man or that' 

woman xmght enjoy them. TViey ^ei^ \.o \i^ V^^ 


ftrones are held, for the benefit of the many. And 
in the disposition of this throne, the necessity of mak- 
l|ing which had fallen upon him from the loss of his 
own darling, he had brought himself to think — not of 
Us daughter's happiness , or to the balance of which, 
ia her possessing or not possessing the property, he 
could venture on no prophecy, — ^but of the welfare of 
aQ those who might measure their weal or woe from 
the manner in which the duties of this high place were 
administered. He would fain that there should still 
have been a Sir Harry or a Sir George Hotspur of 
Humblethwaite; but he found that his duty required 
him to make the other arrangement. 

And yet he had liked the cousin, who indeed had 
many gifts to win liking both from men and women. 
Previously to the visit very little had been known per- 
sonally ef young George Hotspur at Humblethwaite. 
His father, also a George, had in early life quarrelled 
with the elder branch of the family , and had gone off 
with what money belonged to him, and had lived and 
died in Paris. The younger George had been educated 
abroad, and then had purchased a commission in a 
regiment of English cavalry. At the time when young 
Harry died it was only known of him at Humble- 
thwaite that he had achieved a certain reputation in 
Lcttdon, and that he bad sold out of the army. He 
was talked of as a man who shot birds with precision. 
Pigeons he coald shoot with woudeilul d^^\«t\Vj^ — 


which art was at Humblethwaite supposed to be mi 
against him. But then he was equally successful w 
partridges and pheasants; and partly on account 
such success » and partly probably because his man] 
was pleasant, he was known to be a welcome guest 
houses in which men congregate to slaughter gan 
In this way he had a reputation, and one that was i 
altogether cause for reproach; but it had not p 
viously recommended him to the notice of his cous 
Just ten mouths ^fter poor Harry's death he \! 
asked, and went, to Humblethwaite. Probably at tl 
moment the Baronet's mind was still somewhat 
doubt. The wish of Lady Elizabeth had been clea 
expressed to her husband to the effect that encoura^ 
ment should be given to the young people to fall 
love with each other. To this Sir Harry never « 
sented; though there was a time, — and that time h 
not yet passed when George Hotspur reached Humb 
thwaite, — in which the Baronet was not altogether avei 
to the idea of the marriage. But when George 1 
Humblethwaite the Baronet had made up his mil 
Tidings had reached him, and he was afraid of t 
cousin. And other tidings had reached him also; 
rather perhaps it would be truer to him to say tl 
another idea had come to him. Of all the you 
men now rising in England ypsre was no young m 
who more approved Jiimself tb Sir Harry's choice th 
did Lord Alfred Gresley, th^ second son of his c 



Boend and political leader the Marquis of Milnthorp. 
Lord Alfred had but scanty fortune of his own, but 
was in Parliament and in office, and was doing well. 
AU men said all good things of him. Then there was 
a word or two spoken between the Marquis and the 
Baronet, and just a word also with Lord Alfred him- 
lelfl Lord Alfred had no objection to the name of 
Ifotspur. This was in October, while George Hotspur 
vas still declaring that Gilbsy knew nothing of getting 
up a head of game; and then Lord Alfred promised 
to come to Humblethwaite at Christmas. It was after 
this that George owned to a few debts. His confes- 
sion on that score did him no harm. Sir Harry had 
made up his mind that day. Sir Harry had at that 
time learned a good deal of his cousin George's mode 
of life in London, and had already decided that this 
^mng man was not one whom it would be well to set 
vpon the pinnacle. 

And yet he had liked the young man, as did every- 
body. Lady Elizabeth had liked him much, and for 
a fortnight had gone on hoping that all difficulties 
ought have solved themselves by the young man's 
feairiage with her daughter. It need hardly be said 
ftat not a word one way or the other was spoken to 
taaiy Hotspur; but it seemed to the mother that the 
foong people, though there was no love-making, yet 
Sked each other. Sir Harry at this tinkib ^^& xs^ Nsi 
hmdon for a month or two, heaKing \.\^xi%^, ^^V5i% 


Lord A.lfred, who was at his office; and on hi 
that solution by family marriage was ordered t 
ever banished from the maternal bosom. S 
said that it would not do. 

Nevertheless, he was good to the young 
and when the time was drawing nigh for th 
man's departure he spoke of a further visi 
coverts at Humblethwaite, such as they were 
always be at his service. This was a week be 
cousin went; but by the coming of the day c 
the cousin took his departure Sir Harry regre 
he had made that offer of future hospitality. 




Our Heroine. 

"He has said nothing to her?'* asked Sir Harry, 
Inxiously, of his wife. 

"I think not," replied Lady Elizabeth. 

"Had he said anything that meant anything, she 
iwuld have told you?" 

"Certainly she would," said Lady Elizabeth. 

Sir Harry knew his child, and was satisfied that 
no harm had been done; nevertheless, he wished that 
that further invitation had not been given. If this 
Christmas visitor that was to come to Humblethwaite 
could be successful, all would be right; but it had 
seemed to Sir Harry, during that last Week of Cousin 
George's sojourn beneath his roof, there had been 
more of cousinly friendship between the cousins than 
bad been salutary, seeing, as he had seen, that any 
iJoser connection was inexpedient. But he thought 
that he was sure that no great harm had been done. 
Had any word been spoken to his girl which she her- 
self had taken as a declaration of love, she would cer- 
tainly have told her mother. Sir Harry would no 
more doubt his daughter than he would his own 
honoar. There were certain poiuts ^sadi ^tl<^ ^i ^c^ 


clearly laid down for a girl so placed as was 
daughter; and Sir Harry, though he could not 1 
told whence the knowledge of these points and 1 
had come to his child, never for a moment dou] 
but that she knew them, and would obey them, 
know and to obey such points of duty were a par 
the inheritance of such an one as Emily Hots 
Nevertheless, it might be possible that her fa 
should be touched, and that she herself should k 
nothing of it, — nothing that she could confide evei 
a mother. Sir Harry understanding this, and ha* 
seen in these last days something as he thought of 
close a cousinly friendship, was anxious that I 
Alfred should come and settle everything. If I 
Alfred should be successful, all danger wotdd b< 
an end, and the cousin might come again and 
what he liked with the coverts. Alas, alas I the oo' 
should never have been allowed to show his hs 
some, wicked face at Humblethwaite I 

Emily Hotspur was a girl whom any father vh 
have trusted; and let the reader understand thi 
her, that she was one in whom intentional deceit 
impossible. Neither to her father nor to any 
could she lie either in word or action. And all t\ 
lines and points of duty were well known to '. 
though she knew not, and had never asked hen 
whence the lesson had come. Will it be too mud 
say, that they had formed a part of her breeding, ; 


\A been given to her with her blood? She under- 
bod well that from her, as heiress of the House of 
iblethwaite, a double obedience was due to her 
lar, — the obedience of a child added to that which 
now required from her as the future transmitter of 
lOurs of the house. And yet no word had been 
to her of the honours of the house; nor, indeed, 
many words ever been said as to that other 
ience. These lessons, when they have been well 
led, have ever come without direct teaching. 
But she knew more than this, and the knowledge 
reached her in the same manner. Though she 
red a great duty to her father, there was a limit to 
duty, of which, unconsciously, she was well aware. 
her mother told her that Lord Alfred was com- 
having been instructed to do so by Sir Harry; 
hinted, with a caress and a kiss, and a soft 
T , that Lord Alfred was one of whom Sir Harry 
iroved greatly, and that if further approval could be 
med Sir Harry would not be displeased, Emily as 
returned her mother's embrace, felt that she had 
'lK)S8ession of her own with which neither father nor 
ler might be allowed to interfere. It was for them, 
rather for him, to say that a hand so weighted as 
heis should not be given here or there; but it 
not for them, not even for him, to say that her 
was to be given here, or to be given there. Let 
put upon her what weight they migVvl ol l^dscSic] 


honours,' and of family responsibility, that was 
own property ; — if not, perhaps, to be bestowed at 
own pleasure, because of the pressure of that wei 
still her own, and absolutely beyond the bestowa 
any other. 

Nevertheless, she declared to herself, and whisp^ 
to her mother, that she would be glad to welcc^ 
Lord Alfred. She had known him well when she > 
a child of twelve years old and he was alreadj 
young man in Parliament. Since those days she 
met him more than once in London. She was 
turned twenty, and he was something more than 
years her senior; but there was nothing against 
at any rate, on the score of age. Lord Alfred 
admitted on every side to be still a young man; d 
though he had already been a lord of one Boards 
of another for the last four years, and had eamei^ 
reputation for working, he did not look like a id 
who would be more addicted to sitting at Boards fli 
spending his time with young women. He was ha0 
some, pleasant, good-humoured, and full of talk; U 
nothing about him of the official fogy; and was : 
garded by all his friends as a man who was just n< 
fit to marr}'. "They say that he is such a good s4 
and such a good brother," said Lady Elizab^ 

"Quite a Phoenix!" said Emily, laughing. 
Lady Elizabeth .began to fear that she had said 


mchy and did not mention Lord Alfred's name for 
wo days. 

But Miss Hotspur had by that time resolved that 

U>rd Al&ed should have a fair chance. If she could 

teach herself to think that of all men walking the 

earth Lord Alfred was the best and the most divine, 

e nearest of all men to a god, how excellent a thing 

ould it be! Her great responsibility as to the family 

lorden would in that case already be acquitted with 

edit. The wishes of her father, which on such a 

ject were all but paramount, would be gratified; 

d she herself would then be placed almost beyond 

ie hand of misfortune to hurt her. At any rate, the 

eat and almost crushing difficulty of her life would 

,10 be solved. But the man must have enough in her 

ejres of that godlike glory to satisfy her that she had 

&imd in him one who would be almost a divinity, at 

any rate to her. Could he speak as that other man 

^q>oke? Could he look as that other one looked? 

Would there be in his eye such a depth of colour, in 

his voice such a sound of music, in his gait so divine 

a grace? For that other one, though she had looked 

into the brightness of the colour, though she had 

heard the sweetness of the music, though she had 

vatched the elastic spring of the step, she cared 

nothing as regarded her heart — her heart, which was 

'die one treasure of her own. No; she was sure of 

[ftat Of her one own great treasure, she was much 


too chary to give it away unasked, and too 
dent, as she told herself, to give it away una 
The field was open to Lord Alfred; and, as 
wished it, Lord Alfred should be received ^ 
favour. If she could find divinity, then s 
bow before it readily. 

Alas for Lord Alfred! We may all 1 
when she thought of it thus, there was 
chance of success for Lord Alfred. Let 
what of the godlike he might, she would 
little of it there when she made her calculi 
resolutions after such fashion as this. The 
becomes divine in a woman's eyes, has 
achieved his claim to celestial honours b 
assault. *And, alas! the qualities which • 
through it and give the halo to his head 
all be very ungodlike. Some such achieve 
already fallen in the way of Cousin Georg( 
had Cousin George and Lord Alfred been ^ 
just scales, the divinity of the latter, such 
would have been found greatly to prevail. ] 
might perhaps have been difficult to lay he 
bring forward as presentable for such office 
a lover for such a girl any young man who 
less godlike than Cousin George. But he 
of simulation, which are valuable; and pc 
Hotspur had not yet learned the housewife 
passing the web through her fingers, and 


the touch whether the fabric were of fine wool, or 
ihoddy made up with craft to look like wool of the 


We say that there was but small chance for Lord 
red; nevertheless the lady was dutifully minded to 
) him all the chance that it was in her power to 
tow. She did not tell herself that her father's 
les were vain. Of her preference for that other 
1 she never told herself anything. She was not 
ire that it existed. She knew that he was hand- 
le; she thought that he was clever. She knew that 
had talked to her as no man had ever talked 
ore. She was aware that he was her nearest relative 
ond her father and mother, and that therefore she 
^ht be allowed to love him as a cousin. ^ She told 
self that he was a Hotspur, and that he must be 

head of the Hotspurs when her father should be 
en from them. She thought that he looked as a 
Q should look who would have to carry such a 
nity. But there was nothing more. No word had 
n said to her on the subject; but she was aware, 
ause no word had been said, that it was not thought 
ng that she should be her cousin's bride. She 
Id not but know how great would be the advantage 
Id the estates and the title be kept together. Even 
ogh he should inherit no acre of the land, — and 

had been told by her father that such was his 
isioDy — this Cousin George must become the head 


of the House of Hotspur; and to be head of the Hou. 
of Hotspur was to her a much greater thing than 
be the owner of Humblethwaite and Scarrowby. Gi 
like the latter might be given to a mere girl, like he 
self, — were to be so given. But let any man living t 
what he might, George Hotspur must become the hej 
and chief of the old House of Hotspur. Neverthelei 
it was not for her to join the two things together, u 
less her father should see that it would be good f 
her to do so. 

Emily Hotspur was very like her father, having th 
peculiar cast of countenance which had always cha 
acterized the family. She had the same arch in h 
eyebrows, indicating an aptitude for authority; tl 
same well-formed nose, though with her the beak 
the eagle was less prominent; the same short lip, ai 
small mouth, and delicate dimpled chin. With bo 
of them the lower part of the face was peculiarly sho: 
and finely cut. With both of them the brow was hij 
and broad, and the temples prominent. But the girl 
eyes were blue, while those of the old man we 
brightly green. It was told of him that when a b( 
his eyes also had been blue. Her hair, which w 
very plentiful, was light in colour, but by no mea 
flaxen. Her complexion was as clear as the fine 
porcelain; but there were ever roses in her cheeks, f 
she was strong by nature, and her health was perf© 
She was somewhat short of stature, as were all t 


BotspurSy and her feet and hands and ears were small 
lad delicate. But though short, she seemed to lack 
Bothmg in symmetry, and certainly lacked nothing in 

^^ strength. She could ride or walk the whole day, and 
liad no feeling that such vigour of body was a posses- 

^ son of which a young lady should be ashamed. Such 
as she was, she was the acknowledged beauty of the 

^county; and at Carlisle, where she showed herself at 
least once a year at the county ball, there was neither 
man nor woman, young nor old, who was not ready 
to say that Emily Hotspur was, among maidens, the 
glory of Cumberland. 

Her life hitherto had been very quiet. There was 
the ball at Carlisle, which she had attended thrice; 
on the last occasion, because of her brother's death, 
she had been absent, and the family of the Hotspurs 
had been represented there only by the venison and 
game which had been sent from Humblethwaite. 
Twice also she had spent the months of May and June 
in London; but it had not hitherto suited the tone of 
her father's character to send his daughter out into all 
the racket of a London season. She had gone to 
halls, and to the opera, and had ridden in the Park, 
and been seen at flower-shows; but she had not been 
to common in those places as to be known to the 
crowd. And, hitherto, neither in town or country, 
liad her name been connected with that of any suitor 
far her hand. She was now twenty, and lVi& \^;dj^^ 


will remember that in the twelve months last past, tl 
House of Humblethwaite had been clouded with dec 

The cousin was come and gone, and the Baron* 
hoped in his heart that there might be an end of hi: 
as far as Humblethwaite was concerned; — at any rai 
till his child should have given herself to a betti 
lover. Tidings had been sent to Sir Harry during tl: 
last week of the young man's sojourn beneath his roo 
which of all that had reached his ears were the wors 
He had before heard of recklessness, of debt, < 
dissipation, of bad comrades. Now he heard of won 
than these. If that which he now heard was trui 
there had been dishonour. But Sir Harry was^a ma 
who wanted ample evidence before he allowed h 
judgment to actuate his conduct, and in this case tl 
evidence was far from ample. He did not stint h 
hospitality to the future baronet, but he failed to repe 
that promise of a future welcome which had alreac 
been given, and which had been thankfully accepter 
But a man knows that such an offer of renewe 
hospitality should be repeated at the moment < 
departure, and George Hotspur, as he was taken awj 
to the nearest station in his cousin's carriage, was qui 
aware that Sir Harry did not then desire that the vis 
should be repeated. 

Lord Alfred was to be at Humblethwaite on Chris 
mas-eve. The emergencies of the Board at which I 








lit would not allow of an earlier absence from Lon- 
don. He was a man who shirked no official duty, 
and was afraid of no amount of work; and though he 
bew how great was the prize before him, he refused 
to leave his Board before the day had come at which 
Us Board must necessarily dispense with his services. 
Between him and his father there had been no reticence, 
and it was clearly understood by him that he was to 
go down and win twenty thousand a year and the 
prettiest girl in Cumberland, if his own capacity that 
way, joined to all the favour of the girl's father and 
mother, would enable him to attain success. To Emily 
iiot a word more had been said on the subject than 
those which have been already narrated as having been 
ipoken by the mother to the daughter. With all his 
anthority, with all his love for his only remaining child, 
]j| with all bis consciousness of the terrible importance of 
^1 the matter at issue. Sir Harry could not bring himself 
:r| to suggest to his daughter that it would be well for 
{^ I her to fyH in love with the guest who was coming to 
them. But to Lady Elizabeth he said very much. He 
had quite made up his mind that the thing would be 
good, and, having done so, he was very anxious that 
the arrangement should be made. It was natural that 
this girl of his should learn to love some youth; and 
how terrible was the danger of her loving amiss, when 
ao much depended on her loving wisely I The whole 
fete of the House of Hotspur was in her baAd&^— \.^ 


/ do with it as she thought fit! Sir Harry trembh 
he reflected what would be the result were she to • 
to him some day and ask his &vour for a suitor w 
unfitted to bear the name of Hotspur, and to s 
the throne of Humblethwaite and Scarrowby. 

"Is she pleased that he is coming?" he saJ 
his wife, the evening before the arrival of 

" Certainly she is pleased. She knows that we 
like him." 

"I remember when she used to talk about hi 
often," said Sir Harry. 

"That was when she was a child." 

"But a year or two ago," said Sir Harry. 

"Three or fom: years, perhaps; and with her 
is a long time. It is not likely that she should 
much of him now. Of course she knows what 
that we wish." 

"Does she think about her cousin at all?" he 
some hours afterwards. 

"Yes, she thinks of him. That is only nal 
you know." 

"It would be unnatural that she should thin 
him much." 

"I do not see that," said the mother, kee 
defend her daughter from what might seem to b 
implied reproach. "George Hotspur is a man 
will make himself thought of wherever he goes. I 



i < defer, and very amusing; — ^there is no denying that. 
3ii|Aiul then he has the Hotspur look all over." 

"I wish he had never set his foot within the 
ofbonse/' said the father. 

"My dear, there is no such danger as you think," 
said Lady Elizabeth. "Emily is not a girl prone to 
bll in love at a moment's notice because a man is 
good-looking and amusing; — and certainly not with 
the conviction which she must have that her doing 
80 would greatly grieve you." Sir Harry believed in 
his daughter, and said no more; but he thoroughly 
wished that Lord Alfred's wedding-day was fixed. 

"Mamma," said Emily, on the following day, "won't 
Lord Alfred be very dull? 
"I hope not, my dear.^ 

"What is he to do, with nobody else here to amuse 

"The Crutchleys are coming on the 27th." 
Now Mr. and Mrs. Crutchley were, as Emily thought, 
very ordinary people, and quite unlikely to aflford 
amusement to Lord Alfred. Mr. Crutchley was an old 
gentleman of county standing, and with property in 
the county, living in a large dull red house in Penrith, 
of whom Sir Harry thought a good deal , because he 
was a gentleman who happened to have had great- 
3I grandfathers and great-grandmothers. But he was quite 
\u old as Sir Harry, and Mrs. Crutchley was a great 
J dotl older than Lady Elizabeth. 





" What will Lord Alfred have to say to Mrs. Crutcl 

"What do people in society always have to sa 
each other? And the Lathebys are coming her 
dine to-morrow, and will come again, I don't dc 
on the 27th." 

Mr. Latheby was the young Vicar of Humblethw 
and Mrs. Latheby was a very pretty young bride wl 
he had just married* 

"And then Lord Alfred shoots," continued I 

" Cousin George said that the shooting wasn't w 
going after," said Emily, smiling. "Mamma, I 
it will be a failure." This made Lady Elizabeth 
happy, as she thought that more was meant than 
really said. But she did not confide her fears to 


Lord Alfred's Courtship. 

The Hall, as the great house at Homblethwaite was 
called, consisted in truth of various edifices added one 
to another at various periods ; but the result was this, 
&at no more picturesque mansion could be found in 
anj part of England than the Hall at Humblethwaite* 
The oldest portion of it was said to be of the time of 
Henry VII.; but it may perhaps be doubted whether 
&e set of rooms with lattice windows looking out on 
to the bowling-green, each window from beneath its 
own gable, was so old as the date assigned to it. It 
is strange how little authority can usually be found in 
family records to verify such statements. It was known 
that Humblethwaite and the surrounding manors had 
been given to, or in some fashion purchased by, a 
certain Harry Hotspur, who also in his day had been 
a knight, when Church lands were changing hands 
binder Heniy VIE. And there was authority to prove 
^ that Sir Harry had done something towards 
inaking a home for himself on the spot; but whether 
4o9e very gables were a portion of the building which 
be monks of St. Humble had raised ioi V)Ci€coaii^^^\£^ 
'^preceding reign, may probably "be AovAAJeA- TisaX 


there were fragments of toasonry, and part 
timber, remaining from the monastery was 
true enough. The great body of the old hoi 
now stood, had been built in the time of CI 
and there was the date in the brickwork sti] 
cuous on the wall looking into the court, 
and front door as it now stood, veiy promj 
quite at the end of the house, had been ei 
the reign of Queen Anne, and the modern 
rooms with the best bedrooms over them, p 
far out into the modem gardens, had been < 
the present baronet's father. The house was 
of brick, and the old windows, — not the vei 
the reader will understand, but those of the 
age, — were built with strong stone mullions, ; 
longer than they were deep, beauty of arc 
having in those days been more regarded tl 
Who does not know such windows, and 
declared to himself often how sad a thing i 
sanitary or scientific calculations should have 
the like of them from our houses? Two la 
windows coming almost to the ground, and 
almost to the ceilings, adorned the dining-ri 
the library. From the drawing-rooms modern 
opening on to a terrace, led into the garden. 

You entered the mansion by a court 
enclosed on two sides altogether, and on 
others partially. Facing you, as you drove 


body of the building, with the huge porch pro- 
on the right so as to give the appearance of 
portion of the house standing out on that side. . On 
left was that old mythic Tudor remnant of the 
ery, of which the back wall seen from the court 
pierced only with a small window here and there, 
was covered with ivy. Those lattice windows, 
bom which Emily Hotspur loved to think that the 
wouks of old had looked into their trim gardens, now 
looked on to a bowling-green which was kept very 
Idm in honour of the holy personages who were sup- 
posed to have played there four centuries ago. Then, 
It the end of this old building, there had been erected 
lotchens, servants' ofQces, and various rooms, which 
toned the comer of the court in front, so that only 
me comer had, as it were, been left for ingress and 
egress. But the court itself was large, and in the 
J&iddle of it there stood an old stone ornamental 
Mmcture, usually called the fountain, but quite ignorant 
of water, loaded with griffins and satyrs and mermaids 
with ample busts, all overgrown with a green damp 
growth, which was scraped off by the joint efforts of 
the gardener and mason once perhaps in every five 

It often seems that the beauty of architecture is 
joddental. A great man goes to work with great 
faeans on a great pile, and makes a great failure. 
Ike world perc^ves that grace and beauty have 



h HI /^' ^^^ *^* ®^®^ magnificence has b< 

y achieved. Then there grows up beneath vari< 

^^ own hands a complication of stones and brick 

e arrangement of which no great thought seems 
have been given; and, lo, there is a thmg so perf 
m Its glory that he who looks at it declares tl 

uung could be taken away and nothing adc 
without injury and sacrilege and disgrace. So it I 
^^^^y or rather so it was now, with the Hall 
Humblethwaite. No rule ever made for the guidai 
of an artist had been kept. The parts were out 
proportion. No two parts seemed to fit each oth 
•"^ut it all on paper, and it was an absurdity. 1 
li^e hall and porch added on by the builder of Que 
Anne's time, at the very extremity of the house, w 
almost a monstrosity. The passages and staircas 
and internal arrangements, were simply ridicule 
But there was not a portion of the whole interior t 
did not charm; nor was there a comer of the ext^ 
nor a yard of an outside wall, that was not in it 
eminently beautiful. 

Lord Alfred Gresley, as he was driven into 
court in the early dusk of a winter evening, hav 
passed through a mile and a half of such park seen 
as only Cumberland and Westmoreland can show, ^ 
fully alive to the glories of the place. Humblethw; 
did not lie among the lakes, — ^was, indeed, full 
miles to the north of Keswick; but it was so pla 


b enjoyed the beauty and the luxury of mountains 
rivers y without the roughness of unmanageable 
, or the sterility and dampness of moorland. Of 

fragments, indeed, peeping out through the close 
and here and there coming forth boldly so as to 

the park into little depths, with now and again 
I ravine y there were plenty. And there ran right 
s the park, passing so near the Hall as to require 
ne bridge in the very flower-garden, the Caldbeck, 
ight and swift a stream as ever took away the 
• from neighbouring mountains. And to the south 
amblethwaite there stood the huge Skiddaw, and 
leback with its long gaunt ridge; while to the 

Brockleband Fell seemed to encircle the domain. 

Alfred, as he was driven up through the old 
, and saw the deer peering at him from the knolls 
broken fragments of stone, felt that he need not 

his elder brother if only his lines might fall to 
in this very pleasant place. 

3e had known Humblethwaite before; and, irre- 
tive of all its beauties, and of the wealth of the 
ipurs, was quite willing to fall in love with Emily 
pur. That a man with such dainties offered to 
should not become greedy, that there should be 
ouch of avarice when such wealth was shown to 
is almost more than we may dare to assert. But 

Alfred was a man not specially given to covet- 
3ss. He had recognized it as hi^ dM\?f ^& "^ 


man not to seek for these things unless he 
truth love the woman who held them in her 
give. But as he looked round him through th 
ing of the evening, he thought that he ren 
that Emily Hotspur was all that was loveable. 

But, reader, we must not linger long o 
Alfred's love. A few words as to the father, 
to the daughter, and a few also as to the o 
where they dwelt together, it has been nee 
say; but this little love story of Lord Alfred 
ever was a love story, — must be told very 

He remained five weeks at Humblethws 
showed himself willing to receive amusement 
Mrs. Crutchley and from young Mrs. Lathel 
shooting was quite good enough for him, anc 
golden opinions from every one about the pL 
made himself acquainted with the whole histo 
house, and was prepared to prove to demc 
that Henry VII.'s monks had looked out of tl 
windows, and had played at bowls on that ve 
Emily became fond of him after a fashion 
failed to assume any aspect of divinity in her 

Of the thing to be done, neither father nc 
said a word to the girl; and she, though s 
so well that the doing of it was intended, 
a word to her mother. Had Lady Elizabet 
how to speak, had she dared to be free with 


lildy Emily would soon have told her that there was 
> chance for Lord Alfred* And Lady Elizabeth 
ould have believed her. Nay, Lady Elizabeth, though 
m could not speak, had the woman's instinct, whidi 
most assured her that the match would never be 
lade. Sir Harry, on the other side, thought that 
lings went prosperously; and his wife did not dare to 
Qdeceive him. He saw the young people together, 
ad thought that he saw that Emily was kind. He 
id not know that this frank kindness was incompat- 
Ide with love in such a maiden's ways. As for Emily 
lierself , she knew that it must come. She knew that 
could not prevent it. A slight hint or two she 
give 9 or thought she gave, but they were too fine, 
impalpable to be of avail. 

Lord Alfred spoke nothing of love till he made 

oflfer in form. At last he was not hopeful himself. 

had found it impossible to speak to this girl of 

She had been gracious with him, and almost 

;ey and yet it had been impossible. He thought 

himself that he was dull, stupid, lethargic, and 

ihty undemonstrative. But the truth was that 

was nothing for him to demonstrate. He had 

there to do a stroke of business, and he could 

tiirow into this business a spark of that fire which 

have been kindled by such sympathy had it 

There are men who can raise such sparks, 

pretence of fire, where there is no hea.1 ^l ^\ — 


false, fraudulent men; but he was not such 
Nevertheless he went on with his business. 

"Miss Hotspur/' he said to her one mon 
tween breakfast and Iu^ch, when, as usual, opp 
had been given him to be alone with her, 
something to say to you, which I hope at an 
will not make you angry to hear." 

"I am sure you will say nothing tp m 
angry,*' she replied. 

"I have already spoken to your father, anc 
his permission. I may say more. He assures 
he hopes I may succeed." He paused a mom 
she remained quite tranquil. He watched h 
could see that the delicate pink on her chee 
little heightened, and that a streak of colour 
itself on her fair brow; but there was nothing 
manner to give him either promise of succesj 
surance of failure. "You will know what I m< 

"Yes, I know," she said, almost in a whis 

"And may I hope? To say that I love yo 
seems to be saying what must be a matter of 

"I do not see that at all," she replied wit 

"I do love you very dearly. If I may be 
to think that you will be my wife, I shall be 1 
piest man in England. I know how greai 
honour which I seek, how immense in every 
the gift which I ask you to give me. Can 3 


^^No/' she said, again dropping her voice to a 

"Is that all the answer, Miss Hotspur?" 

"What should I say? How ought I to answer 
ou? If 1 could say it without seeming to be unkind, 
ideed, indeed, I would do so." 

"Perhaps I have been abrupt." 

"It is not that. When you ask me — to — to— 
3ve you, of course I know what you mean. Should 
not speak the truth at once?" 

"Must this be for always?" 

"For always," she replied. And then it was over. 

He did not himself press his suit further, though 
ae remained at Humblethwaite for three days after this 

Before lunch on that day the story had been told 
by Emily to her mother, and by Lord Alfred to Sir 
Harry. Lady Elizabeth knew well enough that the 
story would never have to be told in another way. 
Sir Harry by no means so easily gave up his enter- 
prise. He proposed to Lord Alfred that Emily should 
be asked to reconsider her verdict. With his wife he 
was very round, saying that an answer given so curtly 
should go for nothing, and that the girl must be 
taught her duty. With Emily herself he was less 
Qigent, less authoritative, and indeed at last somewhat 
suppliant. He explained to her how excellent would 
be the marriage; how it would settle this t.<en&\& \^ 


sponslbility which now lay on his shoulders witl 
heavy a weight; how glorious would be her posii 
and how the Hotspurs would still live as a | 
family could she bring herself to be obedient, 
he said very much in praise of Lord Alfred, poii 
out how good a man he was, how moral, how dili^ 
how safe, how clever, — how sure, with the assist 
of the means which she would give him, to be on 
the notable men of the country. But she never yie 
an inch. She said very little, — answered him ha 
a word, standing close to him, holding by his 
and his hand. There was the fact, that she w 
not have the man, would not have the man no\ 
evar, certainly would not have him; and Sir Hj 
let him struggle as he might, and talk his best, c 
not keep himself from giving absolute credit to 

The visit was prolonged for three days, and i 
Lord Alfred left Humblethwaite Hall, with less 
preciation of all its beauties than he had felt a: 
was first being driven up to the Hall doors. W 
he went, Sir Harry could only bid God bless him, 
assure him that, should he e^r choose to try his 
tune again, he should have all the aid which a fa 
could give him. 

"It would be useless," said Lord Alfred; * 
knows her own mind too well." 

And so he went his way. 




When the spring»time came, Sir Harry Hotspof, 
nrith his wife and daughter, went tip to London. 
During the last season the house in Bruton Street 
had been empty. He and his wife were then mourn- 
ing their lost son, and there was no place for the 
gai^ of London in their lives. Sir Harry was still 
thinking of his great loss. He was always thinking 
of the boy who was gone, who had been the apple of 
his eye, his one great treasure, the only human being 
in the world whose superior importance to his own he 
had been ready, in his heart of hearts, to admit; but 
it was needful that the outer signs of sorrow should 
be laid aside, and Emily Hotspur was taken up to 
Ix)ndon, in order that she might be suited with a 
Irosband. That, in truth, was the readon of their 
going. Neither Sir Harry nor Lady Elizabeth would 
have cared to leave Cumberland had there been no 
8nch cause. They would have been altogether content 
to remain at home had Emily been obedient enough 
in the winter to accept the hand of the suitor proposed 
for her. 

The house was opened in Brutoti Stc^&\.^ ^tA\j^^^ 


Alfred came to see them. So also did Cousin Geor^ 
There was no reason why Cousin George should i 
come. Indeed, had he not done so, he must hi 
been the most ungracious of cousins. He came, a 
found Lady Elizabeth and Emily at home. Em 
told him that they were always there to receive vi 
tors on Sundays after morning church, and then 
came again. She had made no such communicati 
to Lord Alfred, but then perhaps it would have be 
hardly natural that she should have done so. La 
Elizabeth, in a note which she had occasion to wi 
to Lord Alfred, did tell him of her custom on 
Sunday afternoon; but Lord Alfred took no sc 
immediate advantage of the offer as did Cou 

As regarded the outward appearance of their li 
the Hotspurs were gayer this May than they h 
been heretofore when living in London. There w< 
dinner-parties, whereas in previous times there I: 
only been dinners at which a few friends might y 
them; — and there was to be a ball. There was a I 
at the Opera, and there were horses for the Park, a 
there was an understanding that the dealings w 
Madame Milvodi, the milliner, were to be as unlimil 
as the occasion demanded. It was perceived 
every one that Miss Hotspur was to be settled in L 
Not a few knew the story of Lord Alfred. Ev( 
'^ne knew the facts of the property and Emily's pc 


tion as heiress, though every one probably did not 
know that it was still in Sir Harry's power to leave 
every acre of the property to whom he pleased. Emily 
tmderstood it all herself. There lay upon her that 
terrible responsibility of doing her best with the 
Hotspur interests. To her the death of her brother 
bad at the time been the blackest of misfortunes , and 
it was not the less so now as she thought of her own 
position. She had been steady enough as to the 
refusal of Lord Alfred, knowing well enough that she 
cared nothing for him. But there had since come 
upon her moments almost of regret that she should 
have been unable to accept him. It would have been 
so easy a way of escape from all her troubles without 
the assistance of Madame Milvodi, and the opera-box, 
and the Park horses I At the time she had her own 
ideas about another man, but her ideas were not 
such as to make her think that any further work with 
Madame Milvodi and the opera-box would be un- 

Then came the question of asking Cousin George 
to the house. He had already been told to come on 
Sundays, and on the very next Sunday had been 
there. He had given no cause of offence at Humble- 
thwaite, and Lady Elizabeth was of opinion that he 
should be asked to dinner. If he were not asked, the 
veiy omission would show that they were afraid of 
him. Lady Elizabeth did not exactly esL^laitL l^c^ 


to her husband, — did not accurately know that su^ 
was her fear; but Sir Harry understood her feeling 
and yielded. Cousin George be asked to diQn< 
Sir Harry at this time was vacillating with more 
weakness than would have been expected from a mi 
who had generally been so firm in the affairs of 1: 
life. He had been quite clear about George Hotspi 
when those inquiries of his were first made, and wh( 
his mind had first accepted the notion of Lord AUjr 
as his chosen son-in-law. But now he was again 
sea. He was so conscious of the importance of 1: 
daughter's case, that he could not bring bimaolf to I 
at ease, and to allow himself to expect that the g 
would, in the ordinary course of nature, dispose of h 
young heart not to her own injury, as might reaso 
ably be hoped from her temperament, her charact( 
and her education. He could not protect hims< 
from daily and hourly thought about it. Her m; 
riage was not as the marriage of other girls. T 
house of Hotspur, which had lived and prospered i 
so many centuries, was to live and prosper through h< 
or rather mainly through the man whom she shoi 
choose as her husband. The girl was all-imports 
now, but when she should have once disposed of h< 
self her importance would be almost at an end. i 
Harry bad in the recess of his mind almost a coav 
tion that, although the thing was of such utm< 
moment, it would be better for him, better for th< 


\y better for the Hotspurs, that the matter should 
e allowed to arrange itself than that there should be 
dlj special judgment used in selection. He almost 
elieved that his girl should be left to herself, as are 
ther girls. But the thing was of such moment that 
le could not save himself from having it always before 
lis eyes. 

And yet he knew not what to do; nor was there 
my aid forthcoming from Lady Elizabeth. He had 
lied his hand at the choice of a proper husband, and 
ills daughter would have none of the man so chosen. 
So he had brought her up to London, and thrown her 
18 it were upon the market. Let Madame Milvodi 
and the opera-box and the Park horses do what they 
could for her. Of course a watch should be kept on 
her; — not from doubt of her excellence, but because 
the thing to be disposed of was so all-important, and 
the girl's mode of disposing of it might, without dis- 
grace or feult on her part, be so vitally prejudicial to 
the &milyl 

For, let it be remembered, no curled darling of an 
eldest son would suit the exigencies of the case, un- 
less such eldest son were willing altogether to merge 
the claims of his own family, and to make himself 
bj name and purpose a Hotspur. Were his child 
to pcesent to him as his son-in-law some heir to a 
noble house, some future earl, say even a duke in 
BmbiyOy all that would be as nothing to S\i Harr^^ 


It was not his ambition to see his daughter a duel 
He wanted no namb, or place, or dominion for 
Hotspur greater or higher or more noble than tl 
which the Hotspurs claimed and could maintain 
themselves. To have Humblethwaite and Scarro 
lost amidst the vast appanages and domains of S( 
titled family, whose gorgeous glories were new 
paltry in comparison with the mellow honours of 
own house, would to him have been a ruin to all 
hopes. There might, indeed, be some arrangemen 
to the second son proceeding from such a marriage 
as to a future chance Hotspur; but the claims of 
Hotspurs were, he thought, too high and too holy 
such future chance; and in such case, for one gen 
tion at least, the Hotspurs would be in abeya 
No: it was not that which he desired. That w< 
not suffice for him. The son-in-law that he des 
should be well bom, a perfect gentleman, with bek 
ings of whom he and his child might be proud; 
he should be one who should be content to rest 
claims to material prosperity and personal positioc 
the name and wealth that he would obtain with 
wife. Lord Alfred had been the very man; but 1 
his girl would have none of Lord Alfred I £1 
sons there might be in plenty ready to take sue 
bride; and were some eldest son to come to him 
ask for his daughter's hand, some eldest son 
would do so almost with a right to daim it if 


il's consent were gained, how could he refuse? And 
it to leave a Hotspur behind him living at Humble- 
iwaite, and Hotspurs who should follow that Hotspur, 
as all in all to him. 

Might he venture to think once again of Cousin 
leorge? G>usin George was there, coming to the 
lOuse, and his wife was telling him that it was in- 
ombent on them to ask the young man to dinner, 
t was incumbent on them, unless thej meant to let 
iim know that he was to be regarded absolutely 
s a stranger, — as one whom they had taken up for 
, while, and now chose to drop again. A very ugly 
tory had reached Sir Harry's ears about Cousin 
xeorge. It was said that he had twice borrowed 
Qoney from the money-lenders on his commission, 
Assing some document for security of its value 
vhich was no security, and that he had barely escaped 
letection, the two Jews knowing that the commission 
vould be forfeited altogether if the fraud were brought 
light. The commission had been sold, and the 
proceeds divided between the Jews, with certain re- 
naining claims to them on Cousin George's personal 
istate. Such had been the story which in a vague 
vay had reached Sir Harry's ears. It is not easily 
Siat such a man as Sir Harry can learn the details 
of a disreputable cousin's life. Among all his old 
Ueuds he had none more dear to him than Lord 
tththorp; and among his younger friends none morQ 

Sir Hany ff^it^r* \ 


intimate than Lord Burton, thie eldest son of Li 
Milnthorpt iKtfd Alfred's brother. Lord Barton b 
told him thie story, teUing him at the same time H 
he could not vouch for its truth. "Upon my woi 
I don't know«" said Lord Burton, when interrogat 
again. ''I think if I were you I would regard it 
though I had never heard it Of course, he was 

''That is altogether another thing," said Sir Har 
''Altogether! I think that probably he did pai 
his commission. That is bad, but it isn't so very bs 
As for the other charge against him, I doubt it." 
said Lord Burton, and Sir Harry determined that t 
accusation should go for nothing. 

But his own child, his only child, the transmitter 
all the great things that fortune had given to hii 
she, in whose hands were to lie the glories of Humb 
thwaite and Scarrowby; she, who had the giving vn 
of the honour of their ancient family, — could she 
trusted to one of whom it must be admitted that 
his early life had been disreputable, even if the worl< 
lenient judgment in such matters should fail to st 
matize it as dishonourable? In other respects, ho 
ever, he was so manifestly the man to whom ! 
daughter ought to be given in marriage! By sv 
arrangement would the title and the property be k( 
together, — and by no other which Sir Harry coi 
now make, for his word had been given to his daugh 


hat she was t6 bd his heiress. Let hiin make what 
Kfangemests he mighty this ComMi George^ at his 
iesfthy -VDvU be the head of the family. Every 
'Peerage" that was printed wdidd tell (he old stoty 
o ail the world. By certain Gourtesies of the law of 
fesoent his fiitne beks wovld be Hotspurs were his 
laaghter natried to Lord Alfred or the like; but the 
:hildren of such a marriage would not be Hotspurs in 
pory tivth, nor by any courtesy of law, or even by 
my kindness of the Minister or Sovereign, could the 
^d of Slick a md6n become the baronet, the Sir 
Ebny of the day, the head of the £Eimily. The posi- 
tion was one whidi no Soveiie^ and no Minister 
[X>uki achieve, or touch, or bestow^ It was his, beyond 
Qie power of any earthly potentate to deprive him of 
h, and would hiave been tnUismitted by him to a son 
with as absolute security. But — alas! alas! 

Sir Harry gave ao indication that he thought it 
expedient to change his mind on the subject. When 
Lady Elizabeth proposed thait Cousin Greorge should 
be asked to dinner, he frowned and looked black as 
he acceded; but, in truth, he vaciilated. The allure- 
anots on that side were so grestt that he could not 
ihogether fcM-ce upon himself the duty of throwing 
bem from ham« He knew that Cousin George was 
10 fitting husband for his girl, that he was a man to 
Miom he wonld not have thought of giving her, had 
kr happiness been his only object And he did u^\ 


think of so bestowing her now. He became tinea 
when he remembered the danger. He was uohaii 


as he remembered how amusing, how handsome, hi 
attractive was Cousin George. He feared that Emi 
might like him! — ^by no means hoped it. And yet 1 
vacillated, and allowed Cousin George to come to ti 
house, only because Cousin George must become, i 
his death, the head of the Hotspurs. 

Cousin George came on one Sunday, came < 
another Sunday, dined at the house, and was of cois 
asked to the ball. But Lady Elizabeth had so { 
ranged her little affairs that when Cousin George h 
Bruton Street on the evening of the dinner party I 
and Emily had never been for two minutes alone f 
gether since the family had come up to Londo 
Lady Elizabeth herself liked Cousin George, and, h: 
an edict to that effect been pronounced by her hi 
band, would have left them alone together with gn 
maternal satisfaction. But she had been told that 
was not to be so, and therefore the young people h 
never been allowed to have opportunities. La 
Elizabeth in her very quiet way knew how to do t 
work of the world that was allotted to her. Th< 
had been other balls, and there had been ridings 
the Park, and all the chances of life which young m< 
and sometimes young women also, know so well h* 
to use; but hitherto Cousin George had kept, or h 
been constrained to keep, bis distance. 



I want to know, Mamma," said Emily Hotspur, 
[ie day before the ball, "whether Cousin George is a 
»1ack sheep or a white sheep?" 

"What do you mean, my dear, by asking such a 
(uestion as that?" 

"I don't like black sheep. I don't see why young 
ben are to be allowed to be black sheep; but yet you 
mow they are." 

"How can it be helped?" 

"People s];^6uld not notice them, Mamma/' 

"My dear, it is a most difficult question, — quite 
i^yond me, and I am sure beyond you. A sheep 
leedn't be black always because he has not alwaj^ 
}een quite white; and then you know the black lambs 
ire just as dear to their mother as the white." 

"Dearer, I think." 

"I qinite agree wiih you, Emily, that in general 
todety black sheep should be avoided." 

"Then they shouldn't be allowed to come in," said 
Smily. Lady Elizabeth knew from this that there 
ras danger, biit the danger was not of a kind which 
snabled her specially to consult Sir Harry. 



Otcargt Hotspur. 

A LITTLE must nonr be told to the reader of Con 
George and the ways of his life. As Lady £Iizabf 
had said to her daughter, th9t question of admitti) 
black sheep into society, or of refuaiiy them adm 
tance, is very difficulL In the £rat place, whose ej 
are good enough to know whether in truth a sheep 1 
black or not? And then is it not the &ct that sci 
little amount of »haicie in tiie fleece of male sheq) 
considered, if not absolutely desirable, at any n 
quite pardonable? A male sheep with a fleece 
white as that of a ewe*lambr-^ia he not conadered 
be, among muttons, somewhat insipid? It was of tl 
taste of which Pope was conscious when \m dedar 
that every woman was at heart a rake. And ao 
comes to pass that vety Uack sheep indeed are a 
mitted into society, till at last anxious fathers and me 
anxious mothers begin to be aware that their you 
ones are turned out to graze among ravenous wolvi 
This, however, must be admitted, that lambs when 
treated acquire a courage which tends to enable thi 
to hold their own, even amidst wolfish dangers. 

Cousin George, if not a ravenous wolf, was at a 


a very black sheep indeed. In our anxtefy to 
f the truth of him it must not be said that he was 
utely a wolf,— *not as yet, — because in kds <tareer 
lad not as yet made premeditaited attempts to 
ur prey. But in the process of delivering himself 

be devoured by others, he had done things 
[i if known of any sheep should prevent that 
> from being received into a decent flock. There 
been that little trouble about his commission, in 
b, ahhough he had not intended to cheat either 

he had done tiiat which the world would have 
i ' cheating had the world known it. As for 
ag goods from tradesmen without any hope or 
^ht of paying for them, that with him was so 

1 a thing of custom, — as indeed it was also with 
, — that he was almost to be excused for con- 
ing it the normal condition of life for a man in 
K)sition. To gamble and lose money had come 
m quite naturally at a very early age. There had 

come upon him an idea that he might turn the 
s, that in all gambling transactions some one must 

and that as he had lost much, so possibly might 
3W win more. He had not quite yet reached that 
: In his education at which the gambler learns 
the ready way to win much is to win un£iirly; — 
[oite yet, but he was near it. The wolf hood was 
Qg on him, unless some good fortune might save 
There might, however, be such good fortune In 


Store for him. As Lady Elizabeth had said, a 
that was very dark in colour might become white i 
If it be not so, what is all this doctrine of repei 
in which we believe? 

Blackness in a male sheep in regard to the 
sin is venial blackness. Whether the teller of s 
tale as this should say so outright, may be mat 
dispute; but, unless he say so, the teller of thi 
does not know how to tell his tale truly. Blac 
such as that will be all condoned, and the 
received into almost any flock, on condition, i 
repentance or humiliation or confession, but sim] 
change of practice. The change of practice in c 
circumstances and at a certain period become; 
pedient; and if it be made, as regards tints i 
wool of that nature, the sheep becomes as white 
is needed to be. In this respect our sheep had 
as black as any sheep, and at this present peri 
his life had need of much change before he woi: 
fit for any decent social herding. 

And then there are the shades of black which 
from conviviality, — which we may call table blacl 
— as to which there is an opinion constantl) 
seminated by the moral newspapers of the day. 
there has come to be altogether an end of any 
blackness among sheep who are gentlemen. To 
up for this, indeed, there has been expressed 1: 
piquant newspapers of the day an opinion that 


:e taking up the game which gentlemen no longer 
tre to play. It may be doubted whether either ex- 
ression has in it much of truth. We do not see ladies 
rank, certainly, and we do not see gentlemen tumbling 
[}Out as they used to do, because their fashion of 
rinking is not that of their grandfathers. But the 
yve of wine has not gone out from among men; and 
len now are as prone as ever to indulge their loves. 
)ur black sheep was very fond of wine, — ^and also of 
fandy, though he was wolf enough to hide his taste 
rhen occasion required it. 

Very early in life he had come from France to live 
a England, and had been placed in a cavalry regi- 
aent, which had, unfortunately for him, been quartered 
dther in London or its vicinity. And, perhaps equally 
infortunate for him, he had in his own possession a 
nnall fortune of some 500/. a year. This had not 
come to him from his father; and when his father had 
died in Paris, about two years before the date of our 
story, he had received no accession of regular income. 
Some couple of thousand of pounds had reached his 
hands from his father's effects, which had helped him 
through some of the immediately pressing difficulties 
of the day, — for his own income at that time had 
been altogether dissipated. And now he had received 
a much larger sum from his cousin, with an assurance, 
however, that the family property would not become 
Ui when he succeeded to the family title. He was so 


penniless at t^itime, so prone >io ^^etfrom^^Htt; 
mouth, so little given to considonttion of • the 'fi 
that it may be doubted wheHier Jlhe sum givien ^Ic 
was not compensation in full ^for >akll (jSkat was ^ 
withheld from him. 

Still there was his chance wllh the heiress 
regarding this chance , he had very soon ideterfi 
that he would marry his cousin if it might be « 
his power to do so. He knew, and fuiiy appped 
his own advantages. He was a handsome maix^- 
for a Hotspur, but with the Hotspur ^r ha^r and 
eyes, and weU-cut features. There lacked, bov 
to him, that peculiar aspect of firmness abou 
temples which so strongly marked the «ountenan 
Sir Harry and his daughter; and there had <$ome 
him a dlas^ look, and cei^n outer signs •of e 
life, which, however, did not mar his beauty, nor 
they always apparent. The eye was inot a 
bloodshot, nor was the hand constanlfy seen to 8 
It may be said of him, both as to his mora] 
physical position, that he was 4m the e4ge o 
precipice of degradation, but that there was ; 
possibility of salvation. 

He was living in a bachelor's set of rooms, a 
time, in St. James's Street, for which, it must bf 
sumed, that ready money was required. Durin. 
last winter he had horses in Northamptonshire, fc 
hire of which, it must be feared, that his proj 


li heir to Humblethwaite had ui som^ dogre^ been 
|Hmned« At the. preseat tiiat^ be bad a bot^e £or Park 
riding, and he looked upon « good dinai^, with good 
irmey as being due to biia ev^^ dtky, aa thoroughly 
IS though he earned it* That kfr bad n/9ver attempted 
to earn a shilling omc^ tb« day <m wUch he had 
»ased to be a 8oldi^r» now four years since, the 
«adev will hardly j^^siri^ U^ be infii^rned. 

In spite of all Ma i^ultat ibis man enjoyed a cer- 
ain sodaJl popuJfMi^ for whidk winy a, rich num would 
lave given ai third of biaincome^ Dukes and duchesses 
vera fond of him; ai¥l certain persons, standjjug ver}' 
ligh in the world » did not think certain parties were 
mfect without him* He knew how to talk enough, 
kud yet not to talk too much« No one could say of 
lim diat be was witty,, well-read, or given to much 
blinking; but he knew just what was wanted at this 
point of time or at that, and could give it. He could 
[Hit himself forward, and could keep himself in the 
iackground. He could shoot well wtthout wanting to 
shoot best. He coi^ fetch and carry, but stSI do it 
ihrays with an air of manly independence. He co^d 
subserve without an air of cringing. And then he 
looked fSke a gentleman. 

Of all his well-to*do fri^ids, perhaps lie who realty 
iked him best was the £arl of Altringham. George 
ilotspur was at this time something under thirty years 
if aige, and the Earl was four years his senior. The 


Earl was a married man, with a family, a wife wl 
also liked poor George, an enormous income i and 
place in Scotland at which George always spent 
three finst weeks of grouse-shooting. The Earl was' 
kindly, good-humoured, liberal^ but yet hard man 
the world. He knew George Hotspur well, and would 
oh no account lend him a shilling. He would not 
have given his friend money to extricate him jfix>m any 
difficulty. But he forgave the sinner all his sins, opened 
Castle Corry to iiim every year, provided him with th^ 
best of everything, and let him come and dine at A!^' 
tringham House, in Carlton Gardens, as often almoftj 
as he chose during the London season. The Earl wai 
very good to George, though he knew more about hid'^ 
than perhaps did any other man^ but he would not b^ 
with George, nor would he in any way allow George 
to make money out of him. 

''Do you suppose that I want to win money 6t 
you?" he once said to our friend, in answer to a little 
proposition that was made to him at Newmarket. "I 
don't suppose you do," George had answered. "Then 
you may be sure that I don't want to lose any," the 
Earl had replied. And so the matter was ended, and 
George made no more propositions of the kind. 

The two men were together at Tattersall's, looking 
at some horses which the Earl had sent up to be sold 
the day after the dinner in Bruton Street. "Sir Hany 



seems to-be taking to you very kindly,'^ said the 

"Well, — ^yes; in a half-and-half sort of way." 

"It isn't everybody that would give you ^5,000, 
^ou know." 

"I am not everybody's heir," said George. 

"No; and you ain't his, — ^ worse luck." 

"I am, — in regard to the title.' 

"What good will that do you? 

"When he's gone, I shall be the head of the 
amily. As far as I can understand these matters, he 
lasn't a right to leave the estate away from me." 

"Power is right, my boy. Legal power is un- 
loubtedly right." 

"He should at any rate divide them. There are 
:wo distinct properties, and either of them would make 
ne a rich man. I don't feel so very much obliged 
him for his money, — though of course it was con- 

"Very convenient, I should say, George. How do 
^ou get on with your cousin?" 

"They watch me like a cat watches a mouse." 

"Say a rat, rather, George. Don't you know they 
ire right? Would not I do the same if she were my 
^1, knowing you as I do?" 

"She might do worse, my Lord." 

"I'll tell you what it is. He thinks that he mi^ht 
lo worse. I don't doubt about tt\at* ^0^ >Jki^ TKaX\.«x. 


of the fiamilj and the title, and the name, woul< 
him ready to fling her to you, — if only you 
shade less dark a horse liian you ard/' 

^I don"t know that I^n darker th£uft others/ 

"Look here, old fellow; I don't often troul 
with advice, but I will now. U you'll set y 
steadily to woik to Mve decently^ if y^U teU Sii 
the whole truth about y^ifr inoney matters, and 
get into harness, I believe you may have her. 
one as you never had such a chance befcae 
there's one thing yon must do*^ 

"What is the one iSAig?'^ 

"Warii your hands altogether of Mrs. '^ 
You'll have a difficulty, I know, and p^faaps 
want more pluck than you've got. You havei 
pluck of that kind.** 

"You mean that I don't Hke to break a w< 

"Fiddlestick! Do you see that mare, there? 

"I was just lookii^ at her. Why should y< 
with her?" 

"She was the best animal in my stables, bu 
given to eating the stable-boys; old Badger t( 
flat, that he wouldn't have her in the stabl 
longer. I pity the fellow who will buy her, — or 
his fellow. She killed a lad once in Brookboi 

"Why don't you shoot her?" 


**1 cfta'ft aiBiidl to shoot iioiraes. Captain Hotspur, 
[had sHy ctence in buyiog h&tt ctiidi somebody else 
mat have his chance now. That's the lot of them; 
m» or 4vro good ones^ and the rest what I call rags. 
Do yon thiiA of what I've said; and be sure of this: 
lbs. Motton and your couaid can't go on together. 
Ta» Tal — I'm going, across to iny mother's." 

Greorge Hotspur, when he was left alone, did think 
I |;reat deal aboHi it* He was not a man prone to 
HBiare himaelf of a Undy's favour without cause; and 
jpet he did think that his cousin liked him. As to 
tu^ t^taUd difi&culty to which Lord Altringham had 
lUadodi he knew that something must be done; but 
bete were cruel embarrassments on that side of which 
even Attxiogbam knew nothing. And then why should 
be do that which his friend had indicated to him, be* 
fore he knew whether it would be necessary? As to 
taking Sir Harry altogether into his confidence about 
his money matttfs^ that was clearly impossible. Heaven 
and earth! How could the one man speak such truths, 
or the other man listen to them? When money diffi- 
colties come of such nature as those which weighted 
the shoulders of poor George Hotspur, it is quite im- 
possible that there should be any such confidence with 
any one. The sufferer cannot even make a confidant 
{f[ himself, cannot even bring himself to look at his . 
iwn troubles massed together. It was not the amount 
if his debts, but the nature of them, and the chara.o- 


tors of the men with whom he had dealings, that wore 
so terrible. Fifteen thousand pounds — less than oii4 
yeaif's income from Sir Harry's property — would clew 
him of everything, as far as he could judge; but ih&» 
could be no such clearing, otherwise than by mon^ 
disbursed by himself, without a disclosure of dirt whidi 
he certainly would not dare to make to Sir Harry be- 
fore his marriage. 

But yet the prize to be won was so great, and 
there were so many reasons for thinking that it roigfal 
possibly be within his grasp! If, after all, he might 
live to be Sir George Hotspur of Humblethwaite and 
Scarrowbyl After thinking of it as well as he C011I4 
he determined that he would make the attempt; bot 
as to those preliminaries to which Lord Altringham 
had referred, he would for the present leave them to 

Lord Altringham had been quite right when he UM 
George Hotspur that he was deficient in a certain kind 
of pluck. 



The Ball in Braton Street. 

Sir ELkRRT vacillated, Lady Elizabeth doubted, and 
[Cousin George was allowed to come to the ball. At 
Us time, in the common understanding of such 
phrase, Emily Hotspur was heart-whole in regard to 
ler cousin. Had she been made to know that he 
ad gone away for ever, — been banished to some 
Uitipodes from which he never could return, — there 
rould have been no lasting sorrow on her part, 
hough there might have been some feeling which 
rould have given her an ache for the moment. She 
lad thought about him, as girls will think of men as 
whom they own to themselves that it is possible 
hat they may be in love with them some day; — and 
he liked him much. She also liked Lord Alfred, but 
he liking had been altogether of a different kind. In 
^ard to Lord Alfred she had been quite sure, from 
he first days of her intercourse with him, that she 
ould never be in love with him. He was to her no 
QK^e than old Mr. Crutchley or young Mr. Latheby, 
-a man, and a good sort of man, but no more than 
man. To worship Lord Alfred must be impossible 
» her. She had already conceived that it would b^ 

Sir Harnr iKvip^«^. \ 


quite possible for her to worship her Cousin G< 
in the teeth of all the hard things that she had h< 
of him. The reader may be sure that such a thoi 
had passed through her t^ind when she asked hfli 
mother whether Cousin George was to be accepted li 
a black sheep or a white one? 4 

The ball was a very grand afiair, and Emily 
Hotspur was a very great lady. It had come to ht 
understood llhat the successful suitor for her haldl 
would be the future lord of Humblethwaite, and tiHi 
power whh which she was thus vested gave her i 
^ prestige and standing which can harcfly be attained 
by mere wit and beauty, even when most perfect^ 
combined. It was not that all who worshipped, eitlMl 
at a distance or with passing homage, knew the £usl 
of the heiress-ship, or had ever heard of the <^2O,00d 
a year; but, given the status, and the worshippers wffl 
come. The word had gone forth in some mysteriod 
way, and it was acknowledged that Emily HotspnC 
was a great young lady. Other young ladies, wbd 
were not great, allowed themselves to be postponed 
to her almost without jealousy, and young gentlemoi 
without pretensions regarded her as one to whoiri 
they did not dare to ask to be introduced. Emily 
saw it all, and partly liked ft, and partly despised ft. 
But, even when despising it, she took advantage of it 
The young gentlemen without pretensions were no 
more to her than tVie c\i^\i% ^xA XafeX^v^ ^smI '^ 


oang ladies who submitted to her and adored her, — 
rere allowed to be SHbmissive, and to adore. But of 
Us she was quite sure, — that her Cousin George must 
me day be the head of her own family. He was a 
ian whom she was bound to treat with attentive 
egard, if they who had the custody of her chose to 
ibce her in his ccwipany at alL 

At this ball there were some very distinguished 
leople indeed, — persons whom it would hardly be 
■proper to call illustrious. There were two royal 
Isdiesses, one of whom -wsa English, and no less 
kaa three princes. The Russian and French ambas- 
■dors were both there. There was the editor of the 
iost infloiMitial iiewspaper of the day,— for a few 
nfaiiites only; and the Prime Minister passed through 
lie room in the tovatse of the evening. Dukes and 
hchesses below the royal degree were common; and 
ts for earls alKi cotttttesses, and their daughters, they 
brmed the ruck of the crowd. The Poet-laureate 
hdn*t come indeed, but was expected; and three 
[Sdnese mandarins of the first quality entered the 
wmi at eleven, and did not leave till one. Poor 
Lady Elizabeth suffered a great deal with those man- 
krins. From all this it will be seen that the ball was 
|aite a success. 

George Hotspur dined that day with Lord and 
judj Altringham, and went with them to the ball in 
be evening. Lord Altringham, though Vd^ xi\^xmv»x 


-was airy and almost indifferent, was in truth 
anxious that his friend should be put upon his 
by the marriage; and the Countess wais so keen i 
it, that there was nothing in the way of innocen 
trigue which she would not have done to accojm 
it. She knew that George Hotspur was a r^ike, 
a gambler, was in debt, was hampered by other 
culties, and all the rest of it; but she liked the : 
and was therefore willing to believe that a rich 
riage would put it all right. Emily Hotspur was 
thing to her, nor was Sir Harty; but George. had < 
made her own house pleasant to her, and therefor 
her thinking, deserved a wife with j^20,ooo a 
And then, if there might have been scrupleau 
other circumstances, that fact of the baroiietcy < 
came them. It could not be wrong in one pi 
as was Lady Altringham to assist in preventing 
separation of the title and the property. Of a 
George might probably squander all that he c 
squander ; but that might be made right by settlen 
and entails. Lady Altringham was much more t 
getic than her husband, and had made out quite a 
of the manner in which George should proceed, 
discussed the matter with him at great length, 
one difficulty she was, indeed, obliged to slur ( 
but even that was not altogether omitted in her sch 
"Whatever incumbrances there may be, free yoi 
from them at once," she had advised. 

Oif UimjlLKTHWAlTE, 69 

^ ''That is so very easy to say. Lady Altrlngham, 
kot so difficult to do/' 

i ''As to debts, of course they can't be paid without 
Money. Sir Harry will find it worth his while to 
bttle any debts. But if there is anything else, stop 
k at once/' Of course there was something else, and 
Bf course Lady Altringham knew what that something 
dse was. She demanded, in accordance with her 
idieme, that George should lose no time. This was 
hi May. It was known that Sir Harry intended to 
bave town early in June. "Of course you will take 
turn at his word , and go to Humblethwaite when you 
leave us/' she had said. 

"No time has been named." 

"Then you can name your own without difficulty. 
ITou will write from Castle Corry and say you are 
X)ming. That is, if it's not all settled by that time. 
!)f course, it cannot be done in a minute, because Sir 
larry must consent; but I should begin at once, — 
>n]y. Captain Hotspur, leave nothing for them to find 
mt afterwards. What is past they will forgive." Such 
lad been Lady Altringham's advice, and no doubt she 
inderstood the matter which she had been discussing. 

When George Hotspur entered the room, his cousin 
ras dancing with a prince. He could see her as he 
tood speaking a few words to Lady Elizabeth. And 
1 talking to Lady Elizabeth he did not talk as a 
tranger would, or a common guest. He had quite 


understood all that he might gain by assunuAg 
intimacy of cousinhood, and he had assumed it L 
Elizabeth was less weary than before when he st 
by her, and accepted from his hand some little t 
of help, which was agreeable to her. And he sho^ 
himself in no hurry, and told her some little story 1 
pleased her. What a pity it was that Cousin Geo 
should be a scamp, she thought, as he went on 
greet Sir Harry. 

And with Sir Harry he remained a minute or t 
On such an occasion as this Sir Harry was all smi 
and quite willing to hear a little town gossip. '<Cc 
with the Altringhams, have you? I'm told Altri 
ham has just sold all his horses. What's the mean 
of that?" 

"The old story, Sir Harry. He has weeded 
^stable, and got the buyers to think that they « 
getting the cream. There isn't a man in £ngh 
knows better what he's about than Altringham." 

Sir Harry smiled his sweetest, and answered v 
some good-humoured remark, but he said in his h< 
that "birds of a feather flock together," and that 
cousin was — not a man of honour. 

There are some things that no rogue can do. 
can understand what it is to condemn roguery, 
avoid it, to dislike it, to disb^eve in it; — but he c 
not understand what it is to hate it. Cousin Geo 
had probably exaggerated the transaction of wb 


le had spojten, but he had little thought that in doing 
o he had hdped to imbue Sir Harry with a true idea 
tf his own character. 

Gieorge passed on, and saw his cousin, who was 
low standing up with a foreign ambassador. He just 
ipoke to her as he passed her, calling her hj her 
3uJstian name as he did so. She gave him her hand 
!?er so gradou^y; and he, when he had gone on, re- 
nmed and asked her to name a dance. 

''But I don't think IVe one left that I mean to 
lance," she said. 

^'Theii give me one that yon don't mean to dance," 
lie answered. And of course she gave it to him. 

It was an hour afterwards that he came to claim 

ber promise, and she put her arm through his and 
stood up wkh him. There wias no talk then of her 

not dancing, and she went whirling round the room 

irith him in great bliss. Cousin George waltzed well. 

^1 such men do. It is a part of their stock-in-trade. 

On this evening Emily Hotspur thought that he waltzed 

better than any one else, and told him so. "Another 

torn? Of course I will with you, because you know 

irhat you're about" 

"I'd blush if I'd time," said he, 

''A great many gentlemen ought to blush, I know, 
rhat prince, whose name I always forget, and you, 
tie the only men in the room who dance well, accord- 
Dg to my ideas." 

^ . 


Then off they went again, and Emily was vaq 
happy. He could at least dance well, and there cook 
be no reason why she should not enjoy his dandq 
well since he had been considered to be white enopgl 
to be asked to the ball. i 

But with George there was present at every tiap 
and twist of the dance an idea that he was there fii 
other work than that. He was tracking a head d 
game after which there would be many hunters. Hi 
had his advantages, and so would they have thdit 
One of his was this, — that he had her there with hia 
now, and he must use it. She would not fall into hii 
mouth merely by being whirled round the rooo 
pleasantly. At last she was still, and consented tc 
take a walk with him out of the room, somewhere ad 
amidst the crowd, on the staircase if possible, so as tc 
get a breath of fresh air. Of course he soon had hei 
jammed into a corner out of which there was no im 
mediate mode of escape. 

'*We shall never get away again," she said, laugh 
ing. Had she wanted to get away her tone and manne 
would have been very different. 

**I wonder whether you feel yourself to be the sam' 
sort of person here that you are at Humblethwaite,' 
he said. 

"Exactly the same." 

"To me you seem to be so different.' 

"In what way?" 



'*I don't think jou are half so nice/' 

"How very unkind!" 
- Of course she was flattered. Of all flattery praise 
b the coarsest and least efficacious. When you woulft 
btter a man, talk to him about himself, and criticise 
him, pulling him to pieces by comparison of some 
mall present fault with his past conduct; — and the 
rale holds the same with a woman. To tell her that 
die looks well is feeble work; but complain to her 
wofully that there is something wanting at the present 
moment, something lacking from the usual high 
standard, some temporary loss of beauty, and your 
solicitude will prevail with her. 

"And in what am I not nice? I am sure Tm trying 
to be as nice as I know how." 

"Down at Humblethwaite you are simply yourself, 
—Emily Hotspur." 

"And what am I here?" 

"That formidable thing, — a success. Don't you 
fed yourself that you are lifted a little off" your legs?" 

"Not a bit; — not an inch. Why should I?" 

"I fail to make you understand quite what I mean. 
Don't you feel that with all these princes and poten- 
ates you are forced to be something else than your 
latural self? Don't you know that you have to put 
in a special manner, and to talk in a special way? 
>oes not the champagne fly to your head, more or 



''Of course, the princes and potentates are not th 
same as old Mrs. Crutchley, if you mean that." 

''I am not Uaming you, you know, only I cannol 
help being very anxious; and I found yon ao perfed 
at Humblethwaite that I cannot say that I like 90$ 
change. You know I am to come to Hqinblethwatti 

**0f course you are.*' 

"You go down next month, I believe?** 

"Papa talks of going to Scarrowby for a £ew weekly 
He always does every year, and it is so dull. I>id yoa 
ever see Scarrowby?'* 


"You ought to come there some day. You know 
one branch of the Hotspurs did live there for ever SQ 

"Is it a good house?'* 

"Very bad indeed; but there are enormous woods, 
and the country is very wild, and ever3rthing is at 
sixes and sevens. However, of course you would nol 
come, because it is in the middle of your London 
season. There would be ever so many things to keep 
you. You are a man who, I suppose, never was oi4 
of London in June in your life, unless some raoo 
meeting was going on." 

"Do you really take me for such as that, Emily?" 

"Yes, I do. That is what they tell me you are. 
Is it not true? Don't you go to races?" 


^I should be quite willing tQ undertake never to 
put my foot on a racecourse u^n tbis minute. I will 
do so now if you will only ask it of me." 

She paused a moment, half thinking that she would 
ask it, but at last she determined against it. 

"No," she said; "if you think it proper to stay 
away, you can do so without my asking it. I have 
no right to make such a request. If you think races 
are bad, why don't you stay away of your own ac- 

"They are bad," he said. 
Then why do you go to them?" 
They are bad, and I do go to them. They are 
very bad, and I go to them very often. But I will 
stay away and never put my foot on another race- 
course if you, my cousin, will ask me." 

"That is nonsense." 

"Try me. It shall not be nonsense. If you care 
enough about me to wish to save me from what is 
evil, you can do it. I care enough about you to give 
vp the pursuit at your bidding." 

As he said this he looked down into her eyes, and 
she knew that the full weight of his gaze was upon 
her. She knew that his words and his looks together 
were inteikled to impreas her with some feeling of his 
. love for her. She knew at the moment, too, that they 
gratified her. And she remembered also in the same 
moment that her Cousin George was a black sheep. 


''If you cannot refrain from what is bad ¥ 
my asking yon" she said, ''your refraining will 

He was making her some answer, when she ii 
on being taken away. "1 must get into the da 
room; I must indeed, George. I have already t 
over some poor wretch. No, not yet, I see, ho 
I was not engaged for the quadrille; but I mi 
back and look after the people." 

He led her back through the crowd; and as '. 
so he perceived that Sir Harry's eyes were fixed 
him. He did not much care for that. If he 
carry his Cousin Emily, he thought that he might 
the Baronet also. 

He could not get any special word with her 
that night. He asked her for another dance, b 
would not grant it to him. "You forget the p 
and potentates to whom I have to attend," sh( 
to him, quoting his own words. 

He did not blame her, even to himself, judg 
the importance which he attached to every W( 
private conversation which he could have wit! 
that she found it to be equally important. ] 
something gained that she should know that 1 
thinking of her. He could not be to her now li] 
cousin, or any other man, with whom she might 
three or four times without meaning anything. 


was aware of it, so must she be; and he was glad that 
ibe should feel that it was so. 

"Emily tells me that you are going to Scarrowby 
Beit month," he said afterwards to Sir Harry. 

Sir Harry frowned, and answered him very shortly, 
[ "Yes, we shall go there in June." 

"Is it a large place?" 

"Large? How do you mean? It is a good prop- 

"But the house?" 

"The house is quite large enough for us," said Sir 
Harry; "but we do not have company there." 

This was said in a very cold tone, and there was 
nothing more to be added. George, to do him justice, 
had not been fishing for an invitation to Scarrowby. 
He had simply been making conversation with the 
Baronet. It would not have suited him to go to Scar- 
rowby, because by doing so he would have lost the 
power of renewing his visit to Humblethwaite. But 
Sir Harry in this interview had been so very ungracious, 
—and as George knew very well, because of the scene 
in the comer, — that there might be a doubt whether 
he would ever get to Humblethwaite at all. If he 
&iled, however, it should not be for the want of 
andadty on his own part. 

But, in truth. Sir Harry's blackness was still the 
lesolt of vacillation. Though he would fain redeem 
this prodigal, if it were possible, and give him every- 


thing that was to be given; yet, when he 
prodigal attempting to h^ himself to the goo< 
his wrath was aroused. George Hotspm-, as h( 
himself from Brntott Street to such other amt 
as were at his command, meditated mach < 
position. He thought he could give up the race 
but he was sure that he could at any rate say 
would give them up. 



Lady Altringham. 

There was one more meeting between Cousin 
jeorge and Emily Hotspur, before Sir Harry left Lon- 
ion with his wife and daughter. On the Sunday after- 
noon following the ball he called in Bruton Street, and 
found Lord Alfred there. He knew that Lord Alfred 
had been refused, and felt it to be a matter of course 
that the suit would be pressed again. Nevertheless, he 
was quite free from animosity to Lord Alfred. He 
could see at a glance that there was no danger for 
him on that side. Lord Alfred was talking to Lady 
Elizabeth when he entered, and Emily was engaged 
with a bald-headed old gentleman with a little ribbon 
and a star. The bald-headed old gentleman soon 
departed, and then Cousin George, in some skilfully 
indirect way, took an opportunity of letting Emily know 
that he should not go to Goodwood this July. 

"Not go to Goodwood?" said she, pretending to 
laugh. "It will be most unnatural, will it not? 
They'll hardly start the horses without you, I should 

"They'll have to start them >N\tVvo\i\. xckfc^ "^X "^ck^ 
rate." Of course she understood 'w\l^X V^ \css»:£^> "^^^ 


understood also why he had told her. But If 
promise were true, so much good had been done, — s 
she sincerely believed that it was true. In what ip 
could he make love to her better than by refrain: 
from his evil ways for the sake of pleasing her? OtI 
bald-headed old gentlemen and bewigged old lad 
came in, and he had not time for another word, 
bade her adieu, saying nothing now of his hope 
meeting her in the autumn, and was very affection 
in his farewell to Lady Elizabeth. "I don't supp< 
I shall see Sir Harry before he starts. Say *good-b; 
for me." 

"I will, George." 

"I am so sorry you are going. . It has been 
jolly, coming in here of a Sunday, Lady Elizabe 
and you have been so good to me. I wish Scarro^ 
was at the bottom of the sea." 

**Sir Harry wouldn't like that at all." 

''I dare say not. And as such places must be 
suppose they ought to be looked after. Only why 
June? Good-bye! We shall meet again some da; 
But not a word was said about Humblethwaite in S( 
tember. He did not choose to mention the prosp 
of his autumn visit, and she did not dare to do. 
Sir Harry had not renewed the offer, and she woi 
not venture to do so in Sir Harry's absence. 

June passed away, — as Junes do pass in London, 
very gaily in appearance, very quickly in reality, vi 


% huge outlay of money and an enormous amount of 
Btappointment. Young ladies would not accept, and 
pang men would not propose. Papas became cross 
lad stingy, and mammas insinuated that daughters 
were misbehaving. The daughters fought their own 
battles, and became tired in the fighting of them, and 
many a one had declared to herself before July had 
pcome to an end that it was all vanity and vexation of 

The Altringhams always went to Goodwood, — hus- 
jband and wife. Goodwood and Ascot for Lady 
f Altringham were festivals quite as sacred as were Epsom 
and Newmarket for the Earl. She looked forward to 
them all the year, learned all she could about the 
horses which were to run, was very anxious and ener- 
getic about her party, and, if all that was said was 
true, had her little book. It was an institution also 
that George Hotspur should be one of the party; and 
of all the arrangements usually made, it was not the 
one which her Ladyship could dispense with the easiest. 
George knew exactly what she liked to have done, and 
how. The Earl himself would take no trouble, and 
desired simply to be taken there and back and to find 
everjrthing that was wanted the very moment it was 
needed. And in all such matters the Countess chose 
that the Earl should be indulged. But it was necessary 
to have some one who would look after something — 
vfao would direct the servants, and give tVi^ oxd^ec^ 

Sir I/oTfy^ //^/s^ur, G 


and be responsible. George Hotspur did it all 
mirably, and on such occasions earned the hospit 
which was given to him throughout the year. At G( 
wood he was aknost indispensable to Lady Altringh 
but for this meeting she was willing to dispense ^ 
him. "I tell you, Captain Hotspur, that you're no 
go," she said to him. 

"Nonsense, Lady Altringham." 

"What a child you are! Don't you know i 
depends on it?" 

"It does not depend on that" 

"It may. Every little helps. Didn't you pror 
her that you wouldn't?" 

"She didn't take it in earnest." 

"I tell you, you know nothing about a won 
She will take it very much in earnest if you break j 

"She'll never know." 

"She will. She'll learn it. A girl that learns ev 
thing. Don't go; and let her know that you have 

George Hotspur thought that he might go, and 
let her know that he had not gone. An accomplia 
and successful lie was to him a thing beautiful in iti 
— an event that had come off usefully, a piece 
strategy that was evidence of skill, so much gained 
the world at the least possible outlay, an investn 
from which had come profit without capital. L 



was veiy hard on him, threatening him at 
time with the EarFs displeasure, and absolute 
of his company. But he pleaded hard that his 
>k would be ruinous to him if he did not go; that 
was a pursuit of such a kind that a man could not 
[give it up all of a moment; that he would take care 
Itliat his name was omitted from the printed list of 
Lord Altringham's party; and that he ought to be 
allowed this last recreation. The Countess at last gave 
vay, and George Hotspur did go to Goodwood. 

With the success or failure of his book on that 
occasion our story is not concerned. He was still 
more flush of cash than usual, having something left 
of his cousin's generous present. At any rate, he 
came to no signal ruin at the races, and left London 
for Castle Cony on the loth of August without any 
known diminution to his prospects. At that time the 
Hotspurs were at Humblethwaite with a party; but 
it had been already decided that George should not 
prepare to make his visit till September. He was to 
write from Castle Corry. All that had been arranged 
between him and the Countess, and from Castle Corry 
he did write: — 

"Dear Lady Elizabeth, — Sir Harry was kind 
enough to say last winter that I might come to Hum- 
Uethwaite again this autumn. Will you be able to take 
me in on the 2nd September? we have ^bo>i\. ^tC\^^^ 


with Altringham's house, and Lady A. has had end 
of me. They remain here till the end of this mo: 
With kind regards to. Sir Harry and Emily, 

"Believe me, yours always, 

"George Hotspur." 

Nothing could be simpler than this note, and 
every word of it had been weighed and dictated 
Lady Altringham. "That won't do at all. You mus 
seem to be so eager," she had said, when he sho^ 
her the letter as prepared by himself. "Just write 
you would do if you were coming here." Thea 
sat down, and made the copy for him. 

There was very great doubt and there was m 
deliberation over that note at Humblethwaite. 
invitation had doubtless been given, and Sir Harry 
not wish to turn against his own flesh and blood,- 
deny admittance to his house to the man who 
the heir to his title. Were he to do so, he must j 
some reason; he must declare some quarrel; he n 
say boldly that all intercourse between them was 
be at an end; and he must inform Cousin Geo 
that this strong step was taken because Cousin Gee 
was a — ^blackguard! There was no other way of esc 
left. And then Cousin George had done nothing si 
the days of the London intimacies to warrant s 
treatment; he had at least done nothing to wan 
such treatment at the hands of Sir Harry. And 


Hany thoroughly wished that his cousin was at 
em. He still vacillated, but his vacillation did 
i bring him nearer to his cousin's side of the case. 
Ivery little thing that he saw and heard made him 
how that his cousin was a man to whom he could 
&ot give his daughter even for the sake of the family, 
without abandoning his duty to his child. At this 
moment, while he was considering George's letter, it 
was quite clear to him that George should not be his 
lon-in-law; and yet the fact that the property and the 
title might be brought together was not absent from 
his mind when he gave his final assent. "I don't sup- 
pose she cares for him," he said to his wife. 

"She's not in love wfth him, if you mean that.'' 
"What else should I mean?" he said, crossly. 
"She may learn to be in love with him." 
"She had better not. She must be told. He may 
come for a week. I won't have him here for longer. 
Write to him and say that we shall be happy to have 
faim from the second to the ninth. Emily must be 
told that I disapprove of him, but that I can't avoid 
opening my house to him." 

These were the most severe words he had ever 
'■ spoken about Cousin George, but then the occasion 
had become very critical. Lady Elizabeth's reply was 
«8 follows: — 

**My dear Cousin George, — Sir Hairj ^xAI^wKl 


be very happy to have you on the second, as you 
pose, aaod hope you will stay till the eleventh. 

"Yours aincorely, 

"Elizabeth Hotspur. 

He was to come on a Saturday, but she ^iid 
like to tell him to go on a Saturday, because o; 
following day. Where could the poor fellow b 
the Sunday? She therefore stretched her invit 
, for two days beyond the period sanctioned bj 

"It's not very gracious," said George^ as he sh< 
the note to Lady Altringham. 

"I don't like it the less on that account. It s] 
that they're afraid about her, and they wouMn' 
afraid without cause." 

"There is not much of that, I fancy." 

"They oughtn't to have a chance against yoi 
not if you play your game well. Even in ordi 
cases the fathers and mothers are beaten by the Ic 
nine times out of ten. It is only when the men 
oafs and louts that they are driven oflf. But with 
with your cousinship, and half-heirship, and all ; 
practice, and the family likeness, and the rest of i 
you only take a little trouble " 

"I'll take any amount of trouble." 

"No, you won't. You'll deny yourself noth 
and go through no ordeal that is disagreeable to 


■don't su];^09e your things are a bit better arranged 

Lcmdon than they were in the spring." She looked 

him as though waiting for an answer, but he was 

net. **It's too la*e for anything of that kind now, 

still you may do very much. Make up your mind 

this, that you'll ask Miss Hotspur to be your wife 

before you leave — what's the name of the place?" 

"I have quite made up my mind to that, Lady 

''As to the manner of doing it, I don't suppose that 
I can teach you anything." 
"I don't know about that." 

"At any rate I shan't try. Only remember this. 
Get her to promise to be frm, and then go at once 
to Sir Harry. Don't let there be an appearance of 
doubt in speaking to him. And if he tells you of the 
property, — angrily I mean, — then do you tell him of 
the tide. Make him understand that you give as 
much as you get. I don't suppose he will yield at 
first Why should he? You are not the very best 
young man about town, you know. But if you get 
her, he must follow. She looks like one that would 
stick to it, if she once had said it." 

Thus prompted George Hotspur went from Castle 

Cony to Humblethwaite. I wonder whether he was 

aiware of the extent of the friendship of his friend, 

f ind whether he ever considered why it was that such 

I a woman should be so anxious to assist him in making 



his fortune, let it be at what cost it might to o 
Lady Altringham was not the least in love with G 
Hotspur y was bound to him by no tie whats< 
would suffer no loss in the world should Cousin G 
come to utter and incurable ruin; but she was a w 
of energy, and, as she liked the man, she was zt 
in his ftiendship. 



Airey Force. 

Lady Elizabeth had been instructed by Sir Harry 
to warn her daughter not to fall in love with Cousin 
George during his visit to Humblethwaite; and Lady 
Elizabeth was, as a wife, accustomed to obey her 
husband in all things* But obedience in this matter 
wa3 very difficult. Such a caution as that received is 
not easily given even between a mother and a child, 
and is especially difficult when the mother is uncon- 
sciously aware of her child's superiority to herself. 
Emily was in all respects the bigger woman of the two, 
and was sure to get the best of it in any such caution- 
ing. It is so hard to have to bid a girl, and a good 
girl too, not to fall in love with a particular man I 
There is left among us at any rate so much of reserve 
and assumed delicacy as to require us to consider, or 
pretend to consider on the girl's behalf, that of course 
she won't fall in love. We know that she will, sooner 
or later; and probably as much sooner as opportunity 
niay offer. That is our experience of the genus girl 
in the general; and we quite approve of her for her 
readiness to do so. It is, indeed, her nature; and the 
ptopensity has been planted in Yiei fox N^Vafc ^^3s:^^^^^- 


But as to this or that special sample of the genus g 
in reference to this or that special sample of the gei 
young man, we always feel ourselves bound to take 
as a matter of course that there can be nothing of 1 
kind, till the thing is done. Any caution on t 
matter is therefore difficult and disagreeable, as cc 
veying almost an insult Mothers in weU-r^gnlit 
families do not caution their daughters in reference 
special young men. But Lady Elizabeth had been c 
sired by her husband to give the caution, and must 
some sort obey the instruction. Two days befis 
George's arrival she endeavoured to do as she was tol 
not with the most signal success. 

"Your Cousin George is coming on Saturday/' 

"So I heard Papa say." 

"Your Papa gave him a sort of invitation when '. 
was here last time, and so he has proposed himself*' 

"Why should not he? It seems very natural. I 
is the nearest relation we have got, and we all 11 

"I don't think your Papa does like him." 

"I do." 

"What I mean is your Papa doesn't approve 
him. He goes to races, and bets, and all that kind 
thing. And then your Papa thinks that he's over he 
and ears in debt." 

"I don't know anything about his debts." As : 
his going to races, I believe he has given them i 


I am sure he would if he were asked." Then there 
was a pause, for Lady Elizabeth hardly knew how to 
pronounce her caution. ''Why shouldn't Papa pay his 

"My dear!" 

"Well, Mamma, why shouldn't he? And why 
shoQoldn't Papa let him have the property; I mean, 
leave it to hiin instead of to me?" 

f*If your brother had lived " 

"He didn't live, Mamma. That has been our 
great misfortune. But so it is; and why shouldn't 
George be allowed to take his place? I'm sure it 
would be for the best. Papa thinks so much aibout 
the name, and the family, and all that." 

"My dear, you must leave him to do as he thinks 
fit in all such matters. You may be sure that he will 
do what he believes to be his duty. What I was going 

to say was this " And, instead of saying it, Lady 

Elizabeth still hesitated. 

"I know what you want to say, Mamma, just as 
well as though the words were out of your mouth. 
You want to make me to understand that George is a 
black sheep." 

"I'm afraid he is." 

"But black sheep are not like blackamoors; they 
may be waited white. You said so yoiurself the other 

*'Djd I, my dear?" 


"Certainly you did; and certainly they may. Wh] 
Mamma , what is all religion but the washing of bi 
sheep white; making the black a little less black, 
ing a spot white here and there?" 

"I am afraid your Cousin George is beyond 

"Then Mamma, all I can say is, he oughtn't 
come here. Mind, I think you wrong him. I dax^ 
say he has been giddy and fond of pleasure; but if he 
is so bad as you say. Papa should tell him at once not 
to come. As far as I am concerned, I don't believe 
he is so bad; and I shall be glad to see him." 

There was no cautioning a young woman wbo 
could reason in this way, and who could look at htf i 
mother as Emily looked. It was not, at least, within 
the power of Lady Elizabeth to do so. And yet she 
could not tell Sir Harry of her failure. She thought 
that she had expressed the caution; and she thought 
also that her daughter would be wise enough to be 
guided, — ^not by her mother's wisdom, but by the 
words of her father. Poor dear woman I She was 
thinking of it every hour of the day; but she said no* 
thing more on the subject, either to her daughter or to 
Sir Harry. 

The black sheep came, and made one of a number 
of numerous visitors. It had been felt that the danger 
would be less among a multitude; and there was present 
a very excellent young man, as to whom there were 


pes. Steps had not been taken about this excellent 
ang man as had been done in reference to Lord 
fred; but still there were hopes. He was the eldest 
Q of a Lincolnshire squire, a man of fair property 
.d undoubted family; but who, it was thought, would 
)t object to. merge the name of Thoresby in that of 
otspnr. Nothing came of the young man, who was 
ishful, and to whom Miss Hotspur certainly gave no 
itertainment of a nature to remove his bashfulness. 
ut when the day for George's coming had been fixed, 
ir Harry thought it expedient to write to young 
'horesby and accelerate a visit which had been previ- 
lusly proposed. Sir Hzirry as he did so almost hated 
dmself for his anxiety to dispose of his daughter. He 
iiras a gentleman, every inch of him ; and he thoroughly 
desired to do his duty. He knew, however, that there 
was much in his feelings of which he could not but be 
ashamed. And yet, if something were not done to 
assist his girl in a right disposal of all that she had to 
bestow with her hand, how was it probable that it 
could be disposed aright? 

The black sheep came, and found young Thoresby 
and some dozen other strangers in the house. He 
smiled upon them all, and before the first evening 
1^ over had made himself the popular man of the 
bouse. Sir Harry, like a fool as he was, had given 
lis cousin only two fingers, and had looked black at 
heir first meeting. Nothing could be ^^\\fc^\s^ C53^- 


duct such as that with such a guest. Before the g 
tiemen left the dinner-table on the first day e\ 
he had smiled and joked and had asked questi< 
about "Altringham's mountains/' "The worst 
you fellows who go to Scotland is that you c 
nothing for real sport when you come down soi 
afterwards." All this conversation about Lord . 
tringham's grouse and the Scotch mountains help 
George Hotspur, so that when he went into 1 
drawing-room he was in the ascendant. Many jx 
have learned the value of such ascendancy, and m 
men have known the want of it 

Poor Lady Elizabeth had not a chance with Con 
George. She succumbed to him at once, not knowj 
why, but feeling that she herself became brig 
amusing, and happy when talking to him. She \ 
a woman not given to familiarities; but she < 
become familiar with him, allowing him little liberl 
of expression which no other man would take w 
her, and putting them all down to the score of cous 
hood. He might be a black sheep. She feared th 
could be but little doubt that he was one. But, fr 
her worsted-work up to the demerits of her deai 
friend, he did know how to talk better than any ot 
young man she knew. To Emily, on that first eveni 
he said very little. When he first met her he \ 
pressed her hand, and looked into her eyes, s 
smiled on her with a smile so sweet that it was 

OF humblethwatte: 95 

3ugh a god had smiled on her. She had made up 
r mind that he should be nothing to her, — nothing 
tyond a dear cousin; nevertheless, her eye had 
itched him during the whole hour of dinner, and, 
)t knowing that it was so, she had waited for his 
)X)Qiii^ to them in the evening. Heavens and earth! 
hat an oaf was that young Thoresby as the two stood 
)gether near the door! She did not want her cousin 
come and talk to her, but she listened and laughed 
rithin herself as she saw how pleased was her mother 
by the attentions of the black sheep. 

One word Cousin George did say to Emily Hotspur 
&at night, just as the ladies were leaving the room. 
It was said in a whisper, with a little laugh, with that 
Mr of half joke half earnest which may be so effica- 
cious in conversation: "I did not go to Goodwood, 
after all." 

She raised her eyes to his for a quarter of a second, 
thanking him for his goodness in refiraining. **I don't 
believe that he is really a black sheep at all,'' she said 
to herself that night, as she laid her head upon her 

After all, the devil fights under great disadvantages, 
and has to carry weights in all his races which are 
almost unfair. He lies as a matter of course, believ- 
ing thoroughly in lies, thinking that it is by lies chiefly 
that he must make his running good; and yet every 
h he tells, after it has been told and T^aed^ x^TOk^kct^ 


as an additional weight to be carried. When j 
have used your lie gracefully and successfully » it 
hard to bury it and get it well out of sight. It crc 
up here and there against you, requiring more li< 
and at last, too often, has to be admitted as a t 
most usually so admitted in silence, but still admitte 
— to be forgiven or not, according to the drcai 
stances of the case. The most perfect forgiveness 
that which is extended to him who is known to lie 
everything. The man has to be taken, lies and all, 
a man is taken with a squint, or a harelip, or a b 
temper. He has an uphill game to fight, but whi 
once well known, he does not fall into the difficnl 
of being believed. 

George Hotspur's lie was believed. To our readc 
it may appear to have been most gratuitous, unr 
cessary, and inexpedient. The giirl would not ha 
quarrelled with him for going to the races , — woi 
never have asked anything about it. But Geoi 
knew that he must make his running. It would i 
suffice that she should not quarrel with him. He h 
to win her, and it came so natural to him to lie! A 
the lie was efficacious; she was glad to know that 
stayed away from the races — for her sake. Had 
not been for her sake? She would not bid him s 
away, but she was so glad that he had stayed! 1 
lie was very useful; — if it only could have been bur 
and put out of sight when used! 


There was partridge-shooting for four days; not 
tod shooting, but work which carried the men far 
Dxa home, and enabled Sir Harry to look after his 
^nain* George, so looked after, did not dare to say 
tat on any day he would shirk the shooting. But Sir 
Larry, as he watched his cousin, gradually lost his 
eenness for watching him. Might it not be best that 
le should let matters arrange themselves? This young 
quire from Lincolnshire was evidently an oaf. Sir 
iairy could not even, cherish a hope on that side. 
3is girl was very good, and she had been told, and 
ihe work of watching went so much against the grain 
with him! And then, added to it all, was the remem- 
brance that if the worst came to the worst, the title 
and {property would be kept together. George Hotspur 
Blight have fought his fight, we think, without the aid 
of his lie. 

On the Friday the party was to some extent broken 
up. The oaf and sundry other persons went away. 
Sir Harry had thought that the cousin would go on 
the Saturday, and had been angry with his wife be- 
cause his orders on that head had not been implicitly 
obeyed. But when the Friday came, and George 
offered to go in with him to Penrith, to hear some 
case of fish-poaching which was to be brought before 
the magistrates, he had forgiven the offence. George 
had a great deal to say about fish, and then went on 
to say a good deal about himself. K he coM\d <^\>^ 

Sir I/drfy J^ai^r. T 


get some employment, a fanx!, say, where he n 
have hunting, how good it would be! For he did 
pretend to any virtuous abnegation of the pleasure 
the world, but was willing, — so he said, — to ad< 
them some little attempt to earn his own bread, 
this day Sir Harry liked his cousin better than he 
ever done before, though he did not even then p! 
the least confidence in his cousin's sincerity as to 
farm and the earning of bread. 

On their return to the Hall on Friday they foi 
that a party had been made to go to UUeswater 
the Saturday. A certain Mrs. Fitzpatrick was sta} 
in the house, who had never seen the lake, and 
carriage was to take them to Airey Force. A 
Force, as everybody knows, is a waterfall near to 
shores of the lake, and is the great lion of the L 
scenery on that side of the mountains. The watei 
was full fifteen miles from Humblethwaite, but 
distance had been done before, and could be d 
again. Emily, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and two other yoi 
ladies were to go. Mr. Fitzpatrick would sit on 
box. There was a youth there also who had 
school and not yet gone to college. He was to 
allowed to drive a dog-cart. Of course George Hots 
was ready to go in the dog-cart with him. 

George had determined from the commencemem 
his visit, when he began to foresee that this Saturt 
would be more at his command than any other c 


it on this Saturday he wonld make or mar his fer- 
ae for life. He had perceived that his cousin was 
.utious with him, that he would be allowed but little 
ope for love-making, that she was in some sort 
raid of him; but he perceived also that in a quiet 
ndemonstrative way she was very gracious to him. 
he never ignored him, as young ladies will some- 
mes ignore young men , but thought of him even in 
is absence, and was solicitous for his comfort. He 
ras clever enough to read little signs, and was sure at 
iny rate that she liked him. 

"Why did you not postpone the party till George 
was gone?" Sir Harry said to his wife. 

"The Fitzpatricks also go on Monday," she an- 
swered, "and we could not refuse them." 

Then again it occurred to Sir Harry that life would 
not be worth having if he was to be afraid to allow 
bis daughter to go to a picnic in company with her 

There is a bridge across the water at the top of 
Airey Force, which is perhaps one of the prettiest 
spots in the whole of our Lake country. The entire 
party on their arrival of course went up to the bridge, 
and then the entire party of course descended. How 
it happened that in the course of the afternoon 
George and Emily were there again, and were there 
unattended, who can tell? If she had meant to be 
aotioiis, she must very much have cYiaii%^OL\x<bx '^^^:^^ 


in allowing herself to be led thither. And as he sto 
there, with no eye resting on them, his arm was ron 
her waist and she was pressed to his side. 

"Dearest, dearest," he said, "may I believe ti 
you love me?" 

"I have said so. You may believe it if y( 

She did not attempt to make the distance great 
between them. She leant against him willingly. 

"Dear (jeorge, I do love you. My choice hi 
been made. I have to trust to you for everything." 

"You shall never trust in vain," he said. 

"You must reform, you know," she said, tumir 
round and looking up into his face with a smil 
"They say that you have been wild. You must a 
be wild any more, sir." 

"I will reform. I have reformed. I say it boldl; 
I have become an altered man since I knew you. 
have lived with one hope, and even the hope aloi 
has changed me. Now I have got all that I ha^ 
hoped for. Oh, Emily, I wish you knew how much 
love you!" 

They were there on the bridge, or roaming togeth 
alone among the woods, for nearly an hour after th< 
till Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who knew the value of the pri 
and the nature of the man, began to fear that she hi 
been remiss in her duty as chaperon. As Emily cai 
down and joined the party at last, she was perfect 



regardless either of their frowns or smiles. There had 
been one last compact made between the lovers. 

"George," she had said, "whatever it may cost us, 
let there be no secrets." 

"Of course not," he replied. 

"I will tell Mamma to-night; and you must tell 
Papa. You will promise me?" 

"Certainly. It is what I should insist on doing 
myself. I could not stay in his house under other 
circumstances. But you too must promise me one 
thing, Emily." 

"What is it?" 

"You will be true to me, even though he should 
refuse his consent?" 

She paused before she answered him. 

"I will be true to you. I cannot be otherwise than 
true to you. My love was a thing to give, but when 
given I cannot take it back. I will be true to you, ^ 
but of course we cannot be married unless Papa 

He urged her no further. He was too wise to think 
it possible that he could do so without injuring his 
cause. Then they found the others, and Emily made 
her apologies to Mrs. Fitzpatrick for the delay with a 
quiet dignity that struck her Cousin George almost 
with awe. How had it been that such a one as he 
had won so great a creature? 

George, as he was driven Yiomt t)^ Ya's* ^ovxsk^ ^<3ts^ 


panion, was full of joyous chatter and light small 
He had done a good stroke of business, and 
happy. If only the Baronet could be brought ro 
all the troubles which had enveloped him since a b 
had first begun to grow on his chin would disap 
as a mist beneath the full rays of the sun; or ev< 
there still might be a trouble or two, — ^and as he tho 
of his prospects he remembered that they could nc 
be made to disappear in the mist feshion, — there w 
be that which would gild the clouds. At any rat 
had done a good stroke of business. And he L 
the girl too. He thought that of all the girls he 
seen about town, or about the country either, she 
the bonniest and the brightest and the most clevei 
might well have been that a poor devil like he in se 
of an heiress might have been forced to put up 
personal disadvantages, — with age, with plain Ic 
with vulgar manners, with low birth; but here 
excellent was his fortune, there was everything w 
fortune could give! Love her? Of course he h 
her. He would do anything on earth for her. 
how jolly they would be together when they got 
of their share of that a^20,ooo a year! And how 
it would be to owe nothing to anybody! As he tho 
of this, however, there came upon him the reminisc 
of a certain Captain Stubber, and the further r 
niscence of a certain Mr. Abraham Hart, with 
of whom he had dealings; and he told himself tfa 


^oald behove him to call up all his pluck when 
liscossing those gentlemen and their dealings, with 
he Baronet. He was sure that the Baronet would not 
ike Captain Stubber nor Mr. Hart, and that a good 
leal of pluck would be needed. But on the whole he 
lad done a great stroke of business; and, as a con- 
sequence of his success, talked and chatted all the way 
borne, till the youth who was driving him thought that 
George was about the nicest fellow that he had ever 

Emily Hotspur, as she took her place in the carriage, 

was very silent. She also had much of which to think, 

much on which — as she dreamed — to congratulate 

herself. But she could not think of it and talk at the 

same time. She had made her little apology with 

graceful ease. She had just smiled, — but the smile 

"Was almost a rebuke, — when one of her companions 

bad ventured on the beginning of some little joke as 

to her company, and then she had led the way to the 

carriage. Mrs. Fitzpatrick and the two girls were 

nothing to her now, let them suspect what they chose 

I or say what they might. She had given herself away, 

and she triiunphed in the surrender. The spot on 

I which he had told her of his love should be sacred to 

\ ^ for ever. It was a joy to her that it was near to 

' her own home, the home that she would give to him, 

80 that she might go there with him again and again. 

She had very much to consider and to remember. A. 


black sheep! No! Of all tiie flock he fihcMdd be 
least black. It might be that in the energy oi 
pleasures he had exceeded other men, as he did ex( 
all other men in everything that he did and said. ^ 
was so clever? who so bright? who so handsome 
full of poetry and of manly grace? How sweet was 
voice, how fine his gait, how gracious his smile! 
then in his brow there was that look of command w 
she had ever recognized in her father's face as bel< 
ing to his race as a Hotspur, — only added to it w 
godlike beauty which her father never could ] 

She did not conceal from herself that there m 
be trouble with her father. And yet she was not 
but that upon the whole he would be pleased aft 
while. Humblethwaite and the family honours w< 
still go together, if he would sanction this marrii 
and she knew how he longed in his heart that it w 
be so. For a time probably he might be averse to 
prayers. Should it be so, she would simply give 
her word that she would never during his life 
marry without his permission, — and then she w 
be true to her troth. As to her truth in that res 
there could be no doubt. She had given her w 
and that, for a Hotspur, must be enough. 

She could not talk as she thought of all this, 
therefore had hardly spoken when George appeare 
the carriage door to give the ladies a hand as they c 


1^ into the house. To her he was able to give one gentle 
^ pressure as she passed on; but she did not speak to 
r him, nor was it necessary that she should do so. Had 
not everything been said ahready? 



"I know what you are." 

The scene which took place that nighty bet^ 
the mother and daughter may be easily concer 
Emily told her tale, and told it in a manner which 
no doubt of her persistency. She certainly mean 
Lady Elizabeth had almost expected it. There 
evils which may come or may not; but as to wh 
though we tell ourselves that they may still be avoi< 
we are inwardly almost sure that they will come. S 
an evil in the mind of Lady Elizabeth had been Co 
George. Not but what she herself would have li 
him for a son-in-law had it not been so certain tha 
was a black sheep. 

"Your father will never consent to it, my deai 

"Of course, Mamma, I shall do nothing unlesi 

"You will have to give him up." 

"No, Mamma, not that; that is beyond what I 
can demand of me. I shall not give him up, b 
certainly shall not marry him without Papa's con$ 
or yours." 

"Nor see him?" 

"Well; if he does not come I cannot see him. 


**Nor correspond with him?" 
** Certainly not, if Papa forbids it." 
After that, Lady Elizabeth did give way to a con- 
lerable extent. She did not tell her daughter that 
e considered it at all probable that Sir Harry would 
eld; but she made it to be understood that she her- 
If would do so if Sir Harry would be persuaded. 
nd she acknowledged that the amount of obedience 
romised by Emily was all that could be expected. 
But, Mamma," said Emily, before she left her mother, 
do you not know that you love him yourself?" 

"Love is such a strong word, my dear." 

"It is not half strong enough," said Emily, press- 
Qg her two hands together. "But you do. Mamma?" 

"I think he is very agreeable, certainly." 

"And handsome? — only that goes for nothing." 

"Yes, he is a fine-looking man." 

"And clever? I don't know how it is; let there 
be who there may in the room, he is always the best 

"He knows how to talk, certainly." 

"And, Mamma, don't you think that there is a 
something, — I don't know what, — something not at all 
like other men about him that compels one to love 
lim? Oh, Mamma, do say something nice to me I 
To me he is everything that a man should be." 

"I wish he were, my dear." 

"As for the sort of life he has been Vq^Vcl^^ ^^^tAt 


ing more money than he ought, and all that kind 
thing, he has promised to reform it altogether; and 
is doing it now. At any rate, you must admit, M; 
that he is not false." 

"I hope not, my dear." 

"Why do you speak in that way, Manama? 
he talk like a man that is false} Have you ever km 
him to be false? Don't be prejudiced, Mamma, 
any rate." 

The reader will understand that when the dai 
had brought her mother as far as this, the elder lad^ 
was compelled to say "something nice" at last At 
any rate there was a loving embrace between tfaenv 
and an understanding that the mother would not 
exaggerate the difficulties of the position either bf 
speech or word. 

"Of course you will have to see your papa to- 
morrow morning," Lady Elizabeth said. 

"George will tell him everything to-night," saH 
Emily. She as she went to her bed did not doiAt 
but what the difficulties would melt. Luckily for her, 
— so luckily! — it happened that her lover possessed 
by his very birth a right which, beyond all other pos- 
sessions, would recommend him to her father. And 
then had not the man himself all natural good giflf 
to recommend him? Of course he had not money oi 
property, but she had, or would have, property; an^ 
of all men alive her father was the least disposed U 


t greedy. As she half thought of it and half dreamt 
F it in her last waking moments of that important 
ay, she was almost altogether happy. It was so 
«reet to know that she possessed the love of him 
horn she loved better than all the world beside. 

Cousin George did not have quite so good a time 
f it that night. The first thing he did on his return 
•om Ulleswater to Humblethwaite was to write a 
ne to his friend Lady Altringham. This had been 
romised, and he did so before he had seen Sir 

"Dear Lady A. — I have been successful with my 
ounger cousin. She is the bonniest, and the best, 
nd the brightest girl that ever lived, and I am the 
lappiest fellow. But I have not as yet seen the 
kuronet. I am to do so to-night, and will report 
ffogress to-morrow. I doubt I shan't find him so 
K)nny and so good and so bright. But, as you say, 
he young birds ought to be too strong for the old 
)iies. — Yours most sincerely, G. H." 

This was written while he was dressing, and was 
pot into the letter-box by himself as he came down- 
stairs. It was presumed that the party had dined at 
Ike Falls; but there was "a tea" prepared for them 
3D an extensive scale. Sir Harry, suspecting nothing, 
ras happy and almost jovial with Mr. ¥\\z^^^\\0«l "^ccA 


the two young ladies. Emily said hardly a wo 
Lady Elizabeth, who had not as yet been told, 1 
already suspected something, was very anxious. Geoi 
was voluble, witty, and perhaps a little too loud. I 
as the lad who was going to Oxford, and who h 
drank a good deal of champagne and was now drii 
ing sherry, was loud also, George's manner was i 
specially observed. It was past ten before they g 
up from the table, and nearly eleven before Geor 
was able to whisper a word to the Baronet. He i 
most shirked it for that night, and would have do: 
so had he not remembered how necessary it was tli 
Emily should know that his pluck was good. < 
course she would be asked to abandon him. < 
course she would be told that it was her duty to gi 
him up. Of course she would give him up unless 1 
could get such a hold upon her heart as to make h 
doing so impossible to her. She would have to lea 
that he was an unprincipled spendthrift, — nay wor 
than that, as he hardly scrupled to tell himself. B 
he need not weight his own character with the furth 
burden of cowardice. The Baronet could not e 
him, and he would not be afraid of the Baioni 
"Sir Harry," he whispered, "could you give me 
minute or two before we go to bed?" Sir Hai 
started as though he had been stung, and looked 1 
cousin sharply in the face without answering hi 
George kept his countenance, and smiled. 


**I won't keep you long," he said. 
**You had better come to my room," said Sir 
gruffly, and led the way into his own sanctum. 
"When there, he sat down in his accustomed armchair 
linthout oflfering George a seat, but George soon found 
a seat for himself. "And now what is it?" said Sir 
fianjy with his blackest frown. 

"I have asked my cousin to be my wife." 
"Whatl Emily?" 

"Yes, Emily; and she has consented. I now ask 

for your approval." We must give Cousin George his 

due, and acknowledge that he made his little request 

exactly as he would have done had he been master of 

; ten thousand a year of his own, quite unencumbered. 

' "What right had you, sir, to speak to her without 

coming to me first?" 

"One always does, I think, go to the girl first," 
said Greorge. 

"You have disgraced yourself, sir, and outraged 
xny hospitality. You are no gentleman!" 
"Sir Harry, that is strong language." 
"Strong! Of course it is strong. I mean it to be 
Krong. I shall make it stronger yet if you attempt to 
cay another word to her." 

"Look here. Sir Harry, I am bound to bear a good 
deal from you, but I have a right to explain." 

"You have a right, sir, to go away from this, and 
(0 away you shall.' 



''Sir Harry, you have told me that I am not a 

"You have abused my kindness to you. What 
right have you, who have not a shilling in the world, 
to speak to my daughter? I won't have it, and let 
that be an end of it. I won't have it. And I must 
desire that you will leave Humblethwaite to-morrow. 
I won't have it." 

"It is quite true that I have not a shilling." 

"Then what business have you to speak to my 

"Because I have that which is worth many shillingSi 
and which you value above all your property. I am 
/ the heir to your name and title. When you are gone, 
I must be the head of this family. I do not in the 
least quarrel with you for choosing to leave your 
property to your own child, but I have done the best 
I could to keep the property and the title together. 
I love my cousin." 

"I don't believe in yoiu: love, sir." 

"If that is all, I do not doubt but that I can 
satisfy you." 

"It is not all; and it is not half all. And it isn't 
because you are a pauper. You know it all as well 
as I do, without my telling you, but you drive me to 
tell you." 

^^"KiiOTi what, sir?" 
"Though yoM hadn't a sYvWWtv^, 'jovx ^^\s\!3i VvsLve 


lad her if you could win her, — had your life been 
5ven fairly decent. The title must go to you, — worse 
luck for the family. You can talk well enough, and 
what you say is true. I would wish that they should 
go together." 

"Of course it will be better." 

"But, sir, " then Sir Henry paused. 

"Well, Sir Harry?" 

"You oblige me to speak out. You are such a 
Dne, that I do not dare to let you have my child. 
Yom life is so bad, that I should not be justified in 
doing so for any family purpose. You would break 
lier heart." 

"You wrong me there, altogether." 

"You are a gambler." 

"I have been. Sir Harry." 

"And a spendthrift?" 

"Well — ^yes; as long as I had little or nothing to 

"I believe you are over head and ears in debt 
low, in spite of the assistance you have had from me 
ivithin twelve months." 

Cousin George remembered the advice which had 
been given him, that he should conceal nothing from 
bis cousin. "I do owe some money certainly," he 

"And how do you mean to pay it?" 


" Well — if I many Emily, I suppose that—; 
pay it." 

"That's cool, at any rate," 

"What can I say, Sir Harry?" 

"I would pay it all, though it were to 1 
property " 

"Less than a year's income would clear o 
shilling^ I owe. Sir Harry." 

"Listen to me, sir. Though it were ten 
income, I would pay it all, if I thought that 
would be kept with the title, and that my gir 
be happy." 

"I will make her happy." 

"But, sir, it is not only that you are a i 
and spendthrift, and an unprincipled debtor 
even a thought of paying. You are worse th 
There; — I am not going to call you names, 
what you are, and you shall not have my daug 

George Hotspur found himself compelled t 
for a few moments before he could answer a cl 
vague, and yet, as he knew, so well founded, 
theless he felt that he was progressing, ffi 
would not stand in his way, if only he coul< 
this rich father believe that in other matt 
daughter would not be endangered by the m 
"I don't quite know what you mean, Sir H< 
am not going to defend myself. I have dom 
of which I am ashamed. I was turned very 


5 world, and got to live with rich people 
ivas myself poor. I ought to have withstood 
tation, but I didn't, and I got into bad hands, 
eny it. There is a horrid Jew has bills of mine 

at have you done with that five thousand 


had half of it; and I had to settle for the last 
fhich went against me." 
s all gone?" 

tty nearly. I don't pretend but what I have 
y reckless as to money. I am ready to tell 
truth about everythlog. I don't say that I 
her; but I do say this, — ^tbat I should not 
aght of winning her, in my position, had it 
for the title. Having that in my favour, I 
hink that I was misbehaving to you in pro- 
her. If you will trust me now, I will be 
ul and obedient a son as any naan ever had." 
lad pleaded his cause well, and he knew it 
f also felt that his cousin had made a better 
ti he would have believed to be possible. He 
3 sure that the man was a scamp, utterly un- 
hy, and yet the maui's pleading for himself 
\ efficacious. He sat silent for fiill five minutes 
Q spoke again, and then he gave judgment 
s: "You will go away without seeing her to- 



"If you wish it." 

"And you will not write to her." 

"Only a line." 

"Not a word," said Sir Harry, imperiously. 

"Only a line, which I will give open to you. 
can do with it as you please." 

"And as you have forced upon me the necet 
I shall make inquiries in London as to your past 
I have heard things which perhaps may be untrue. 

"What things, Sir Hany?" 

"I shall not demean myself or injure you bj 
peating them, unless I find cause to believe thej 
true. I do believe that the result will be such s 
make me feel that in justice to my girl I cannot a 
you to become her husband. I tell you so h 
Should the debts you owe be simple debts, not 
honourably contracted, I will pay them." 

"And then she shall be mine?" 

"I will make no such promise. You had b 
go now. You can have the carriage to Penritl 
early as you please in the morning; or to Carlis 
you choose to go north. I will make your excuse 
Lady Elizabcith. Good night." 

Cousin George stood for a second in doubt, 
then shook hands with the Baronet. He reai 
Penrith the next morning soon after ten, and bi 
fasted alone at the hotel. 

There were but very few words spoken on 


xasibn between the father and daughter, but Emily 
Id succeed in learning pretty nearly the truth of 
hat had taken place. On the Monday her mothei 
ave her the following' note: — 

"Dbarbst, — At your father's bidding, I have gone 

uddenly. You will understand why I have done so. 

shall try to do just as he would have me; but you 

rill, I know, be quite sure that I should never give 

ou up. — Yours for ever and ever, G. H." 

The father had thought much of it, and at last had 
letermined that Emily should have the letter. 

In the course of the week there came other guests to 
iumblethwaite, and it so chanced that there was a 
ady who knew the Altringhams, who had unfortunately 
net the Altringhams at Goodwood, and who, most 
infortunately , stated in Emily's hearing that she had 
Jeen George Hotspur at Goodwood. 

"He was not there," said Emily, quite boldly. 

"Oh, yes; with the Altringhams, as usual. He is 
always with them at Goodwood." 

"He was not at the last meeting," said Emily, 

The lady said nothing till her lord was present, 
and then appealed to him. "Frank, didn't you see 
George Hotspur with the Altringhams at Goodwood, 
^ last July?" 


''To be sore I did, and lost a pony to him 

The ladj looked at Emily^ who said nodi 
further; but she was still quite convinced that Geo 
Hotspur had not been at those Goodwood races. 

It is so hard, when yon have used a lie oommc 
ously, to bury it, and get well rid of it. 



Mr. Hart and Captain Stubber. 

Whbn George Hotspur left Humblethwaite, turned 
>iit of tiie house by the angry Baronet early in the 
Boming, — as the reader will remember, — he was at 
lis own desire driven to Penrith, choosing to go south 
rather than north. He had doubted for a while as to 
bis immediate destination. The Altringhams were 
still at Castle Corry, and he might have received great 
comfort from her ladyship's advice and encourage- 
ment. But, intimate as he was with the Altringhams, 
he did not dare to take a liberty with the Earl. A 
certain allowance of splendid hospitality at Castle 
Coiry was at his disposal every year, and Lord 
Altringham always welcomed him with thorough kind- 
ness. But George Hotspur had in some fashion been 
made to understand that he was not to overstay his 
time; and he was quite aware that the Earl could be very 
^sagreeable upon occasions. There was a something 
in the Earl of which George was afraid; and, to tell 
the troth, he did not dare to go bodt to Castle Corry. 
And then, might it not be well for him to make im- 
mediate preparation in London for those inquiries 
Meeting his debts and his character ^bicVi ^vt ^^arpj 


very ignorant, smiling, jocose man, with a slighiif 
Jewish accent, who knew his business well, pursued it 
diligently, and considered himself to have a dear con- 
science. He had certain limits of forbearance witb 
his customers — limits which were not narrow; but, 
when those w^e passed, he would sell the bed firom 
und^ a dying woman with her babe, or bread fran 
the mouth of a starving child. To do so was tiiQ 
necessity of his trade, — for his own guidance in whidi 
he had made laws. The breaking of those laws by 
himself would bring his trade to an end, and there- 
fore he declined to break them. 

Mr. Hart was a man who attended to his business, 
and he was found at home even in September. '^Ye^ 
Mr. 'Oshspur, it's about time something was done now; 
ain't it?" said Mr. Hart, smiling pleasantly. 

Cousin Geoige, also smiling, reminded his fiiend 
of the two thousand pounds paid to him only a few 
months since. ''Not a shilling was mine of that, 
Captain 'Oshspur, not a brass fardin'. That wai 
quite neshesshary just then, as you know, Captain 
'Oshspur, or the fiat must have been in the fire. And 
what's up now?" 

Not without considerable difficulty Cousin Geoigc 

explained to the Jew gentleman what was ''up." He 

probably assumed more inclination on the part of Sii 

Harry for the match than he was justified in doing; 

bat was very argent in explaixuxL^ to Mr« Hart thai 


tbe nature of the life he chose to lead, had abstained 
from such investment of his credit, and had paid for 
his lodgings in St. James' Street. He was consequently 
houseless at the moment, and on his arrival in London 
took himself to an hotel close behind the military club 
to which he belonged. 

At this moment he was comparatively a rich man. 
He had between three and four hundred pounds at a 
bank at which he kept an account when possessed of 
funds. But demands upon him were very pressing, 
and there was a certain Captain Stubber who was 
bitter against him, almost to blood, because one Mr. 
Abraham Hart had received two thousand pounds 
from the proceeds of Sir Harry's generosity. Captain 
Stubber had not received a shilling, and had already 
threatened Cousin George with absolute exposure if 
something were not done to satisfy him. 

George, when he had ordered his dinner at his 
club, wrote the following letter to Lady Altringham. 
He had intended to write from Penrith in the morning, 
but when there had been out of sorts and unhappy, 
and had disliked to confess, after his note of triumph 
sounded on the previous evening, that he had been 
tamed out of Humblethwaite. He had got over that 
feeling during the day, with the help of sundry glasses 
of sherry and a little mixed cura9oa and brandy which 
be took immediately on his arrival in "Loxiiiioxw^ — '^ssA, 


those little details could be kept back to which Vb, 
Hart had so pathetically alluded. Above all it would 
be necessary to preserve in obscurity that little mistake 
which had been made as to the pawning of the com- 
mission. Cousin George told a great many lies, bol 
he told also much tliat was true. The Jew did not 
believe one of the lies; but then, neither did he belieie 
much of the truth. When George had finished hii 
story, then Mr. Hart had a story of his own to tell. 

"To let you know all about it, Captain 'Oshqyor, 
the old gent has begun about it already." 

"What, Sir Harry?" 

"Yes, Shr 'Arry. Mr. Boltby- 

"He's the family lawyer.' 

"I suppose so, Captain 'Oshspur. Veil, he vas hett 
yesterday, and vas very polite. If I'd just tell him al 
about everything, he thought as 'ow the Baronet woak 
settle the affair off 'and. He vas very generous in Ui 
offer, vas Mr. Boltby; but he didn't say nothin' of an] 
marriage, Captain 'Oshspur." 

"Of course he didn't. You are not such a fod ai 
to suppose he would." 

"No; I ain't such a fool as I looks. Captain 'Oshspur 
am I? I didn't think it likely, seeing vat vas tb 
nature of his interrogatories. Mr. Boltby seemed b 
know a good deal. It is astonishing how much theo 
fellows do know." 

''Fou didn't tell bim aay1ibM^*i" 

tuy — - 



the inquiries win be made I do not know; but I am 
here to prepare for them. 

''Yours always most faithfully, 

"G, H." 

''I do not like to ask Altringham to do anything 
for me. No man ever had a kinder friend than I 
have had in him, and I know he objects to meddle in 
the money matters of other people. But if he could 
lend me his name for a thousand pounds till I can 
get these things settled, I believe I could get over 
every other difficulty. I should as a matter of course 
include the amount in the list of debts which I should 
give to Sir Harry; but the sum at once, which I could 
raise on his name without trouble to him, would enable 
me to satisfy the only creditor who will be likely to 
do me real harm with Sir Harry. I think you will 
understand all this, and will perceive how very material 
the kindness to me may be; but if you think that 
Altringham will be unwilling to do it, you had better 
not show him this letter." 

It was the mixed cura9oa and brandy which gave 
George Hotspur the courage to make the request 
contained in his postscript. He had not intended to 
make it when he sat down to write, but as he wrote 
&e idea had struck him that if ever a man ought to 
va» a friend this was an occasion fox doSxi^ %c^. M V^ 


could get a thousand pounds from Lord Altringfaam, 
he might be able to stop Captain Stubber's mouth. 
He did not believe that he should be successful ^ and 
he thought it probable that Lord Altringham might 
express vehement displeasure. But the game was 
worth the candle , and then he knew that he could 
trust the Countess. 

London was very empty, and he passed a wretched 
evening at his club. There were not men enough to 
make up a pool, and he was obliged to content him- 
self with a game of billiards with an old half-pay 
naval captain, who never left London, and who would 
bet nothing beyond a shilling on the game. The half- 
pay navy captain won four games, thereby paying 
for his dinner, and then Cousin George went sulkily 
to bed. 

He had come up to town expressly to see Captain 
Stubber and Mr. Hart, and perhaps also to see another 
friend from whom some advice might be had; but on 
the following morning he found himself very averse to 
seeking any of these advisers. He had applied to 
Lady Altringham for assistance, and he told himself 
that it would be wise to wait for her answer. And 
yet he knew that it would not be wise to wait, as Sir 
Harry would certainly be quick in making his promised 
inquiries. For four days he hung about between his 
hotel and his club, and then Vie golljaA^ (i^&onm|gD»r' 




Qswer. We need only quote the passage which had 
iference to George's special request; — 

"Gustavus says that ke will have nothing to do 
rith money. You know his feelings about it. And he 
ays that it would do no good. Whatever the debts 
ure, tell them plainly to Sir Harry. If this be some 
iShSi of play, as Gustavus supposes, tell that to Sir 
Harry. Gustavus thinks that the Baronet would with- 
out doubt pay any such debt which could be settled or 
partly settled by a thousand pounds." 

"D d heartless, selfish fellow! quite incapable 

of anything like true friendship," said Cousin George 
to himself^ when he read Lady Altringham's letter. 

Now he must do something. Hitherto neither 
Stabber, nor Hart, nor the other friend knew of his 
presence in London. Hart, though a Jew, was much 
less distasteful to him than Captain Stubber, and to 
Mr. Abraham Hart he went first. 

Mr. Abraham Hart was an attorney, — so called ly 
himself and friends, — living in a genteel street abuttin^, 
OQ Gray's Inn Road, with whose residence and place 
of business, all beneath the same roof, George Hotspur 
Was very well acquainted. Mr. Hart was a man in the 
prime of life, with black hair and a black beard, and 
a new shining hat, and a coat with a velvet collar and 
^Ik lining. He was always dressed in the same way, 
iuid had never yet been seen by Cousin George with- 
out his hat on his head. He was a pleasant-si^okAO^ 



with large sums of money, or at least with h 
fessing to stand for large sums, and could ne 
been found without a case in his pocket cramr 
these documents. The quarter of an hour se 
George to be an age; but at last Captain 
knocked at the front door and was shown 

"How d'ye do, Captain Stubber?" said G( 

"I'd do a deal better, Captain Hotspur, if 
it easier sometimes to come by my own." 

"Well, yes; but no doubt you have your 
the delay, Captain Stubber." 

"It's nothing to you. Captain Hotspur, w 
have profit or loss. All you 'as got to look 
pay me what you owe me. And I intend t 

shall, or by G you shall suffer for it! 

going to stand it any longer. I know where 
you, and have you I will." 

Cousin George was not quite sure whet 
Captain did know where to have him. If Mr 
had been with him, it might be so; but then 
Stubber was not a man so easily found as M 
and the connection between himself and the 
might possibly have escaped Mr. Boltby's i] 
It was very difficult to tell the story of his 
such a man as Captain Stubber, but he did 
He explained all the difficulties of Sir Harry's 
in regard to the title and the property, and 


& upon his own advantages as head of the fsunily, 
>f the need there was that he should many the 


But there is not an acre of it will come to you 
J he gives it you?" inquired Captain Stubber. 
Certainly not/' said Cousin George, anxious that 
raptain should understand the real facts of the 
JO 2L certain extent. 
\nd he needn't give you the girl?" 
The girl will give herself, my friend." 
\nd he needn't give the girl the property?" 
But he will. She is his only chjld." 
[ don't believe a word about it. I don't believe 
a one as Sir Hany Hotspur would lift his hand 
Ip such as you." 

He has offered to pay my debts already." 
Very well. Let him make the offer to me. Look 
Captain Hotspur, I am not a bit afraid of you. 


Who asks you to be afraid? " 

Of all the liars I ever met with, you are the 


eorge Hotspur smiled, looking up at the red nose 
ft malignant old man as though it were a joke; 
bat which he had to hear at this moment was a 
burden. Captain Stubber probably understood 
for he repeated his words. 
[ never knew any liar nigh so bad ^& ^om. ^ssA 



then there is such a deal worse than lies. I beliai,] 
I could send you to penal servitude, Captain Hotspor"' 

"You could do no such thing," said Cousin 
still trying to look as though it were a joke, "and yoa 
don't think you could." 

"I'll do my best at any rate, if I don't have my 
money soon. You could pay Mr. Hart two thousand 
pounds, but you think I'm nobody." 

"I am making arrangements now for having every 
shilling paid to you." 

"Yes, I see. I've known a good deal about yonr 
arrangements. Look here. Captain Hotspur, unless 
I have five hundred pounds on or before Saturday, 
I'll write to Sir Harry Hotspur, and I'll give him a 
statement of all our dealings. You can trust mOp 
though I can't trust you. Good morning, Captain ! 
Hotspur." I 

Captain Stubber did believe in his heart that htt 
was a man much injured by Cousin Greorge, and that 
Cousin George was one whom he was entitled to 
despise. And yet a poor wretch more despicable^ 
more dishonest, more false, more wicked, or mora 
cruel than Captain Stubber could not have been found 
in all London. His business was carried on with a 
small capital borrowed from a firm of low attomeTSi 
who were the real holders of the bills he carried, and 
the profits which they allowed him te make were veij 
tricing. But from Couain Qi^x^^ dssons^ ^flcut tasl 


fvelve months he had made no profit at all. And 
Sousin George in former days had trodden upon him 
B on a worm. 

Cousin George did not fail to perceive that Mr. 
Mihy had not as yet applied to Captain Stubber. 



Mrs. Morton. 

Five hundred pounds before Saturda 
was Tuesday! As Cousin George was tak< 
from Red Lion Square in a cab, three or f 
lines of conduct suggested themselves t 
the first place, it would be a very good thir 
Captain Stubber. In the present efifemin 
civilization and with the existing scruple 
value of human life, he did not see his wj 
this direction, but entertained the project 
beautiful castle in the air. The two next 
were to pay him the money demanded, or 
half of it. The second suggestion was the 
the state of Cousin George's funds made 
but then that brute would probably refuse 
half in lieu of the whole when he found 
mand had absolutely produced a tender of 
As for paying the whole, it might perha 
It was still possible that, with such pros] 
him as those he now possessed, he co 
hundred or hundred and fifty pounds; 1 
would be left penniless. The last cours 
which he contemplated was, to take no fi 


of Captain Stubber, and let him tell his story to Sir 
Harry if he chose to tell it. The man was such a 
blackguard that his entire story would probably not be 
believed; and then was it not almost necessary that 
Sir Harry should hear it? Of course there would be 
anger, and reproaches, and threats, and difficulty. 
But if Emily would be true to him, they might all by 
degrees be levelled down. This latter line of conduct 
would be practicable, and had this beautiful attraction, 
— ^that it would save for his own present use that 
charming balance of ready money which he still pos- 
sessed. Had Altringham possessed any true backbone 
of friendship, he might now, he thought, have been 
triumphant over all his difficulties. 

When he sat down to his solitary dinner at his 
club, he was very tired with his day's work. Attend- 
ing to the affairs of such gentlemen as Mr. Hart and 
Captain Stubber, — who well know how to be masterful 
when their time for being masterful has come, — is 
fatiguing enough. But he had another task to per- 
form before he went to bed, which he would fain have 
kept unperformed were it possible to do so. He had 
written to a third friend to make an appointment for 
the evening, and this appointment he was bound to 
keep. He would very much rather have stayed at his 
dab and played billiards with the navy captain, even 
though he might again have lost his shillings. The 
third Mend was that Mrs. Moitou \.o n^Vvotki "Vks^^ 


Altringham had once alluded. ''I supposed that it 
was coming/' said Mrs. Morton, when she had listened, 
without letting a word fjELU from her own lips, to the 
long rambling story which Cousin George told her, — 
a rambling story in which there were many lies, but 
in which there was the essential truth, that Cousin 
George intended, if other things could be made to fit, 
to marry his cousin Emily Hotspur. Mrs. Morton was 
a woman who had been handsome, — dark, thin, with 
great brown eyes and thin lips and a long well-formed 
nose; she was in truth three years younger than 
George Hotspur, but she looked to be older. She was 
a clever woman and well read too, and in eveiy 
respect superior to the man whom she had con- 
descended to love. She earned her bread by her pro- 
fession as an actress, and had done so since her 
earliest years. What story there may be of a Mr. 
Morton who had years ago married, and iU-used, and 
deserted her, need not here be told. Her strongest 
passion at this moment was love for the cold-blooded 
reprobate who had now come to tell her of his in- 
tended marriage. She had indeed loved George 
Hotspur, and George had been sufficiently attached to 
her to condescend to take aid from her earnings. 

"I supposed that it was coming," she said in a low 
voice when he brought to an end the rambling stoiy 
which she had allowed him to tell without a word of 


**What is a fellow to do?" said George. 

"Is she handsome?" 

George thought that he might mitigate the pain by 
making little of his cousin. ''Well, no, not particularly. 
She looks like a lady." 

"And I suppose I don't." For a moment there 
was a virulence in this which made poor George almost 
gasp. This woman was patient to a marvel, long-* 
bearing, affectionate, imbued with that conviction so 
common to woman and the cause of so much delight 
to men,— that ill-usage and suffering are intended for 
woman; but George knew that she could turn upon 
him if goaded far enough, and rend him. He could 
depend upon her for very much, because she loved 
him; but he was afraid of her. "You didn't mean 
that, I know," she added, smiling. 

"Of course I didn't." 

"No; your cruelties don't lie in that line; do they, 

"I'm sure I never mean to be cruel to you, Lucy." ' 

"I don't think you do. I hardly believe that you 
ever mean anything, — except just to get along and 

"A fellow must live, you know," said George. 

In ordinary society George Hotspur could be bright, 
and he was proud of being bright. With this woman 
i he was always subdued, always made to play second 
i Mdle, sHways talked Uke a boy; and Yie Vxvssn \\.» '^^fe 


had loved her once, if he was capable of loving any- 
thing; but her mastery over him wearied him, even 
thoagh he was, after a fashion, proud of her devemess, 

and he wished that she were, ^well, dead, if tiie 

reader choose that mode of expressing what probablj 
were George's wishes. But he had never told himsdf 
that he desired her death. He could build pleasaitf 
castles in the air as to the murder of Captain Stubber, 
but his thoughts did not travel that way in reference 
to Mrs. Morton. 

"She is not pretty, then, — this ridi bride of 


"Not particularly; she's well enough, you know.** 

"And well enough is good enough for you; — is it? 
Do you love her, George?" 

The woman's voice was very low and plaintive as 
she asked the question. Though from moment to 
moment she could use her little skill in pricking hin^ 
with her satire, still she loved him; and she wonld 
vary her tone, and as at one minute she would make 
him uneasy by her raillery, so at the next she wonld 
quell him by her tenderness. She looked into his fact 
for a reply, when he hesitated. "Tell me that you do 
not love her," she said, passionately. 

"Not particularly," replied George. 

"And yet you would marry her?" 

''Whafs a fellow to do"? Xo\x ^ee W« 1 «3doi fixed 


boot the title. These are kinds of things to which 
, man situated as I am is obliged to submit." 

''Royal obligations, as one might call them." 

"By George, yes" said George, altogether missing 
he satire. From any other lips he would have been 
sharp enough to catch it. ''One can't see the whole 
thing go to the dogs after it has kept its head up so 
long! And then you know, a man can't live altogether 
without an income." 

"You have done so, pretty well." 

"I know that I owe you a lot of money, Lucy; 
and I know also that I mean to pay you." 

"Don't talk about that. I don't know how at such 
a time as this you can bring yourself to mention it." 
Then she rose from her seat and flashed into wrath, 
carried on by the spirit of her own words. "Look 
here, George; if you send me any of that woman's 
money, by the living God I will send it back to her- 
self. To buy me with her money! But it is so like 
a man." 

"I didn't mean that. Sir Harry is to pay all my 

"And will not that be the same? Will it not be 
ker money? Why is he to pay your debts? Because 
te loves you?" 

"It is all a family arrangement. You don't quite 

"Of course I don't understand. Such a one as I 


with large sums of money, or at least with bills poou 
fessing to stand for large sums, and could never ham 
been found without a case in his pocket crammed widl 
these documents. The quarter of an hour seemed to 
George to be an age; but at last Captain Stubbec 
knocked at the front door and was shown into tbo 

"How d'ye do, Captain Stubber?" said George. 

"I'd do a deal better, Captain Hotspur, if I found 
it easier sometimes to come by my own." 

"Well, yes; but no doubt you have your profit in 
the delay. Captain Stubber." 

"It's nothing to you, Captain Hotspur, whether I 
have profit or loss. All you 'as got to look to is to 
pay me what you owe me. And I intend that yoQ 

shall, or by G you shall suffer for it! I'm not 

going to stand it any longer. I know where to have 
you, and have you I will." 

Cousin George was not quite sure wh^er tho 
Captain did know where to have him. If Mr. Boltbf 
had been with him, it might be so; but then Obtain 
Stubber was not a man so easily found as Mr. Hait^ 
and the connection between himself and the Ci^)tam 
might possibly have escaped Mr. Boltby's inqimifli. 
It was very difficult to tell the story of his loye to 
such a man as Captain Stubber, but he did tell it 
He explained all the difficulties of Sir Hany's positioa 
In regard to the title and ^e ^io^«i\.>) ^ ^md he was 


lone. ''They meant nothing; did they? He is dead 

"Morton is dead?" 

"Yes; he died in San Francisco, months ago." 

"I couldn't have known that, Lucy; could I?" 

"Don't be a fool! What difference would it have 
made? Don't pretend anything so false. It would 
be disgusting on the very foce of it. It mattered 
nothing to you whether he lived or died. When is it 
to be?" 

"When is what to be?" 

"Your marriage with this ill-looking young woman, 
who has got money, but whom you do not even pretend 
to love." 

It struck even George that this was a way in which 
Emily Hotspur should not be described. She had been 
acknowledged to be the beauty of the last season, one 
of the finest girls that had ever been seen about Lon- 
don; and, as for loving her, — he did love her. A man 
might be fond of two dogs, or have two pet horses, 
and why shouldn't he love two women! Of course he 
loved his cousin. But his circumstances at the moment 
Kere difficult, and he didn't quite know how to explain 
ill this. 

"When is it to be?" she said, urging her question 

In answer to this he gave her to understand th^t 
here was still a good deal of difficulty. 'Vlb \.OAV?st 


something of his position with Captain Stabber, and 
defined, — not with absolute coirectness, — ^the amooi^ 
of consent which Sir Harry had given to the mar- 

"And what am I to do?'' she asked* 
He looked blankly into her face. She then rose 
again, and unlocking a desk with a key that hong at 
her girdle, she took from it a bundle of papers. 

*' There," she said; "there is the letter in; which I 
have your promise to marry me when I am free; — as 
I am i^ow. It could not be less injurious to yon than 
when locked up there; but the remembrance of it 
might frighten you." She threw the letter to bin 
across the table, but he did not touch it. "And here 
are others which might be taken to mean the same 
thing. There! I am not so injured as I might seem 
to be, — for I never believed them. How could I be- 
lieve anything that you would say to me, — anythii^ 
that you would write?" 

"Don't be down on me too hard, Lucy." 
"No, I will not be down upon you at all. If these 
things pained you, I would not say them. Shall I 
destroy the letters?" Then she took them, one after 
another, and tore them into small fragments. "You 
will be easier now, I know." 

"Easy! I am not very easy, I can tell you." 
"Captain Stubber will not let you off so gently as 
I do. Is that it?" 


en there was maxle between them a certain 
ixy arrangement, which if Mrs. Morton trusted 
the undertaking made to her, showed a most 
ful faith on her part. She would lend him 
towards the present satisfaction of Captain 
r; and this sum, to be lent for such a purpose, 
luld consent to receive back again out of Sir 

I money. She» must see a certain manager, she 
mt she did not doubt but that her loan would 
thcoming on the Saturday morning. Captain 
i Hotspur accepted the offer, and was profuse 
thanks. After that, when he was going, her 
iss was almost equal to his vlleness. 

bu will come and see me,'' she said, as she held 
ud. Again he paused a moment. ''George, 

II come and see me?" 
ih, of course I will." 

great deal I can bear; a great deal I have 

but do not be a coward. I knew you before 

1, and have loved you better, and have treated 

tter than ever she will do. Of course you will 


promised her that he would, and then went from 

the Saturday morning Captain Stubber was made 
arily happy by the most unexpected receipt of 
ndred pounds. 

— — ^—i^— 


The Hunt becomes hot 

September passed away with Captain Hots 
unpleasantly. He had various interviews with 
Stubber, with Mr. Hart, and with other credit 
found very, little amusement. Lady Altringt 
written to him again, advising him strongly 
out a complete list of his debts, and to se: 
boldly to Sir Harry. He endeavoured to n 
the list, but had hardly the audacity to do it 
bis own information. When the end of S( 
had come, and he was preparing himself to 
party of distinguished pheasant-shooters in No 
had as yet sent no list to Sir Harry, nor had 1 
a word from Humblethwaite. Certain indicati 
reached him, — continued to reach him from 
day — that Mr. Boltby was at work, but no con 
tion had been made actually to himself even 
Boltby. When and how and in what form 
expected to send the schedule of his debts to S 
he did not know; and thus it came to pass th 
the .time came for his departure from town, 
sent no such schedule at all. His sojourn, 1 
with the distinguished party was to last on! 


!k, and then he' would really go to work. He would 
tainly himself write to Sir Hariy before the end of 

In the meantime there came other troubles, — 
ious other troubles. One other trouble vexed him 
e. There came to him a note from a gentleman 
h whom his acquaintance was familiar though slight, 
as follows:— 

"Dear HoTSPtJR,— r-Did I not meet you. at the last 
lodwood meeting? If you don't mind, pray answer 
! the question. You will remember, I do not doubt, 
It I did; that I lost my money too, and paid it — 
inrs ever, "F. Stackpoole." 

He understood it all immediately. The Stackpooles 
d been at Humblethwaite. But what business had 
s man to write letters to him with the object of 
tttng him into trouble? He did not answer the note, 
t, nevertheless, it annoyed him much. And then 
iie was adother great vexation. He was now run* 
ig low in funds for present use. He had made what 

feared was a most useless outlay in satisfying 
ibber's immediate greed for money, and the effect 
8, that at the beginning of the last week in Sep- 
aber he found himself with hardly more than fifty 
'fei«igns in iiis possession, which would be considerr 
y reduced before be could leave town. H.^ VviaAV^^^Ts^ 

t4^ sm HARRlr fiOTSPtttt 

wcM-se off before, — ^very much worse; but it vases] 
Incumbent on him pow to keep up thai look < 
feather which cannot be maintained in its proper 
ness without ready cash. He must take a nuuk- 
with him among the distinguished guests; he n: 
game-keepers, pay railway fares, and have looj 
about him f(»: a hundred purposes. He wishe 
be known that he was going to marry hiseousi 
might find some friend with softer heart than I 
ham, who would lend him a few hundreds on 
made to believe in this brilliant destiny; but a 
bank-notes in his pocket would greatly aid ] 
making the destiny credible. Fifty pounds, as 1 
knew, would melt away from him like snow. T 
fifty pounds of a thousand always goes quickc 
any of the nineteen other fifties. 

Circumstances had made it impossible for 
attend the Leger this year, but he had put 
money on it. The result had done nothhig 
agsunst him, — except this, that whereas he n 
between one and two hundred pounds, he goi 
the idea of paying only a portion of what he ha 
With reference to the remainder, he wrote to j 
friend if it would be quite the same if the mone 
paid at Christmas. If not, of course it should 1 
at once. The friend was one of the Altringhs 
who had been at Castle Corry, and who had .hi 
George's hopes in reference to his coiiain. i 


led a postscript to his letter: "This kind of thing 
I be ovi^ for me v^y soon. I am to be a Benedict, 
1 the house of Humblethwaite and the title are to 
kept together. I know you will congratulate me. 
' cousin is a charming girl, and worth all that I 
ill lose ten times over." It was impossible, he 
Right, that the man should refuse him credit for 
hty pounds till Christmas, when the man should 
ow that he was engaged to be married to £ 20,000 
^earl But the man did refuse. The man wrote back 
say that he did not understand this kind of thing 
all, and that he wanted his money at once. George 
itspur sent the man his money, not without many 
"ses on the illiberality of such a curmudgeon. Was 
lot cruel that a fellow would not give him so trifling 
assistance when he wanted it so badly? All the 
rid seemed to conspire to hurt him just at this most 
tical moment of his life! In many of his hardest 
ergencies for ready money he had gone to Mrs. 
»rton. But even he felt that just at present he could 
t ask her for more. 

Nevertheless, a certain amount of cash was made 
be forthcoming before he took his departure for 
rfblk. In the course of the preceding spring he 
1 met a young gentleman in Mr. Hart's small front 
iour, who was there upon ordinary business. He 
B a young gentleman with good prospects, and with 
ne command of ready money; but \v^ Yi^'^^ \ft \\^^^ 


and would sometimes want Mr. Hart's assistance. I 
name was Walker, and though he was not exactly o 
of that class in which it delighted Captain Hotspor 
move, nevertheless he was not altogether disdauied 1 
that well-born and well-bred gentleman. On tfa^ thi 
of October, the day before he left London to join I 
distinguished friends in Norfolk, George Hotsp 
changed a cheque for nearly three hundred pounds 
Mr. Walker's banker's. Poor Mr. Walker! But Cpus 
George went down to Norfolk altogether in high feathc 
If there were play, he would play. He would bet abo 
pulling straws if he could find an adversaiy to bet wi 
him. He could chink sovereigns about at his ease, 
any rate, during the week. Cousin George liked 
chink sovereigns about at his ease. And this point • 
greatness must be conceded to him, — that, howev 
black might loom the clouds of the coming sky, 1 
could enjoy the sunshine of the hour. 

In the meantime Mr. Boltby was at work, and b 
fore Cousin George had shot his last pheasant in soi 
very good company, Sir Harry was up in town assistii 
Mr. Boltby. How things had gone at Humblethwai 
between Sir Harry and his daughter must not be to 
on this page; but the reader may understand that n 
thing had as yet occurred to lessen Sir Harry's o 
jection to the match. There had been some correspon 
ence between Sir Harry and Mr. Boltby, and Sir Hai 
had come up to town. When the reader learns tl 


the very day on which Cousin George and his 
it were returning to London by the express train 
wi Norfolk, smoking many cigars and drinking many 
I, — George of sherry, and the servant probably 
irf beer and spirits alternately, — each making himself 
L^liappy with a novel; George's novel being French, and 
F.lhat of the servant English sensational, — the reader, 
'; vhen he learns that on this very day Sir Harry had 
^ interviews with Captain Stubber and also with Mrs. 
; Morton, will be disposed to think that things were not 
t going very well for Cousin George. But then the reader 
1^ does not as yet know the nature of the persistency of 
Emily Hotspur. 

What Sir Harry did with Captain Stubber need 
not be minutely described. There can be no doubt 
tiiat Cousin George was not spared by the Captain, 
; and that when he understood what might be the result 
. of telling the truth, he told all that he knew. In that 
matter of the ^^500 Cousin George had really been 
ill-treated. The payment had done him no sort of 
service whatever. Of Captain Stubber's interview with 
Sir Harry nothing further need now be said. But it 
must be explained that Sir Harry, led astray by de- 
fective information, made a mistake in regard to Mrs. 
Morton, and found out his mistake. He did not much 
like Mrs. Morton, but he did not leave her without an 
ample apology. From Mrs. Morton he learned nothing 
whatever in regard to Cousin Geot^^» — \io\!k«v% \s^ 


this, that Mrs. Morton did not deny diat she was ai> 
quainted with Captain Hot^ur. Mr. Boltiby had learned, 
however, that Cousin George had drawn the mon^ fin 
a cheque payable to her order, and he had made him- 
self nearly certain of the very nature of the transactioa 
Early on the morning after George's retam he vu 
run to ground by Mr. Boltby's confidential derk, al 
the hotel behind the club. It was so early, to Geoigc 
at least, that he was still in bed. But the cleik, who 
had breakfasted at eight, been at his office by nine, 
and had worked hard for two hours and a half sinoe, 
did not think it at all early. George, who knew tiiat 
his pheasant-shooting pleasure was past, and that im- 
mediate trouble was in store for him, had consoled 
himself over-night with a ^ood deal of cora^oa and 
seltzer and brandy, and had taken these comibftiiig 
potations after a bottle of champagne. He was, con- 
sequently, rather out of sorts when he was nm to groond 
in his very bedroom by BoUby's clerk. He was can- 
tankerous at first, and told the clerk to go and be 
d — d. The clerk pleaded Sir Harry. Sir Harry was 
in town, and wanted to see his cousin. A meeting 
must, of course, be arranged. Sir Harry wished that 
it might be in Mr. Boltby's private room* When 
Cousin George objected that he did not choose to have 
any interview with Sir Harry in presence of the lawyer, 
the clerk very humbly explained that the private rooB 
would be exclusively fox tine «^xn\ca o1 ^^ Ws^ ^gnr 


Hemen. Sick as he was, Cousin George knew that 
nothing was to be gained by quaireliing with SirHany. 
Though Sir Harry should ask for an interview in (Hre- 
sence of the Lord Mayor, he must go to it. He made 
the hour as late as he could, and at last three o'clock 
WIS settled. 

At one, Cousin George was at work upon his 
broiled bones and tea laced with brandy, having begun 
bb meal with soda and brandy. He was altogether 
dissatisfied with himself. Had he known on the pre- 
ceding evening what was coming, he would have 
dined on a mutton chop and a pint of sheny, and 
have gone to bed at ten o'clock. He looked at him- 
lelf in the glass, and saw that he was bloated and 
led,^— and a thing foul to behold. It was a matter of 
boast to him, — the most pernicious boast that ever a 
man made, — that in twenty-four hours he could rid 
hunself of all outward and inward sign of any special 
dissipation; but the twenty-four hours were needed, 
and now not twelve were allowed him. Nevertheless, 
be kept his appointment. He tried to invent some lie 
which he might send by a commissioner, and which 
night not ruin him. But he thought upon the whole 
that it would be safer for him to go. 

When he enteied the room he saw at a glance 
that there was to be war, — war to the knife, — ^between 
him and Sir Harry^ He perceived at once that if it 
wore worth his while to go on withxthe tlbitL<^ '^ <^> 


he must do so in sole dependence on the spirit and 
love of Emily Hotspur. Sir Ktoy at their first greet- 
ing declined to shake hands with him, and called him 
Captain Hotspur. 

''Captain Hotspur/' he said, ''in a word, under* 
stand that there must be no further question of a mar* 
riage between you and my daughter." 

"Why not, Sir Harry?" 

"Because, sir " and then he paused — "I would 

sooner see my girl dead at my feet than entrust her 
to such a one as you. It was true what you said to 
me at Humblethwaite. There would have been some* 
thing very alluring to me in the idea of joining the 
property and the title together. A man will pay modi 
for such a whim. I would not unwillingly have paid 
very much in money; but I am not so infamouslj 
wicked as to sacrifice my daughter utterly by giving 
her to one so utterly unworthy of her as you are." 

"I told you that I was in debt. Sir Hsary.'' 

"I wanted no telling as to that; but I did want 
telling as to your mode of life, and I have had it now. 
You had better not press me. You had better see 
Mr. Boltby. He will tell you what I am willing to do 
for you upon receiving your written assurance that 
you will never renew your offer of marriage to Miss 

"I cannot do that," said Cousin George, hoarsely* 

"Tlien I shall leave you m\)Ki ^crai cL«ik^2iS(nc& ta. 


deal with as they please. .1 have nothing further to 
suggest myself, an4 I would recommend that you 
should see Mr. Boltby before you leave the chambers.? 

"What does my cousin say?" he asked. 

"Were you at Goodwood last meeting?" asked 
Sir Harry. "But of course you Were." 

"I was," he answered. He was obliged to acknow- 
ledge so much, not quite knowing what Stackpoole 
might have said or done. "But I can explain that.". 

"There is no need whatever of any explanation. 
Do you generally borrow money from such ladies as 
Mrs. Morton?" Cousin George blushed when this 
question was asked, but made no answer to it. It 
was one that he could not answer. "But it makes 
no diffidence. Captain Hotspur. I mention these 
things only to let you feel that I know you. I must 
decline any further speech with you. I strongly ad« 
vise you. to see Mr. Boltby at once. Good afternoon." 

So saying, the Baronet withdrew quickly, and 
Cousin Geprge heard him shut the door of the 

After considering the matter for a quarter of an 
hour. Cousin George made up his mind that he would 
see the lawyer. No harm could come to him from 
seeing the lawyer. He was closeted with Mr. Boltby 
for nearly an hour, and before he left the chamber 
had been forced to confess to things of which K^ haA 
not thought it possible that Mi, Bo\l\>^ ^o\i\.^ ^n^ 


have heard. Mr. Bokby knew the whole story of the 
money raised on the commifiision, of the liabilities to 
both Hart and Stobber, and had acquainted himsdf 
with the history of Lord Baldebeque's cheque. Mr. 
Boltby was not indignant, as had been Sir Hany, bat 
intimated it as a thing beyond dispute that a man 
who had done such things as could be proved against 
Cousin George, — and as would undoubtedly be proved 
against him if he would not give up his pursuit of ^ 
heiress, — ^must be disposed of with severity, unless he 
retreated at once of his own accord. Mr. Boltby did 
indeed hint something about a criminal prosecution, 
and utter nriiiy and — incarceration. 

But if George Hotspur would renounce his oousin 
utterly, — ^putting his renunciation on paper,*^Sir Han)i 
would pay alL his debts to the, eitent of twantji 
thousand pounds, would aDow him four hundred a 
year on condition that he would live out of It'^glaiwi) 
and would leave him a further sum of twenty tfacmsand 
pounds by his will, on condition that no renewed 
cause of offence were given. 

''You had better, perhaps, go home and diink 
about it, Mr. Hotspur,'' said the lawyer. 

Cousin George did go away and think about it 

fi0MBL£THWAIT£. t^J 

I wiU noj( desert him. 

Sis. Harrt, before he had left Humblethwaite for 
•ndon in October, had heard enough of his cousin's 
ts to make him sure that the match must be op- 
«ed with aU his authority. Indeed he had so felt 
mi the first moment in which George had begun to 
A him of what had occurred at Airej Force. He 
.d never thought that George Hotspur would make a 
ting husband for his daughter. But, without so 
inking, he had allowed his mind to dwell upon the 
itside advantages of the connection, dreaming of a 
ness which he knew did not exist, till he had vadl- 
fced, and the evil thing had come upon him. When 
16 danger was so close upon him as to make him 
e what it was, to force him to feel what would be 
e xnisery threatened to his daughter, to teach him to 
aUze his own duty, he condemned himself bitterly 
V his own weakness. Could any duty which he 
wed to the woHd be so high or so holy as that which 
as due from him to his child? He almost hated his 
ame and title and position as he thought of the evil 
lat he had already done. Had his cousin George 
een in no close succession to the title ^ ^o^Vl Vi!^ 


have admitted a man of whom he knew so much ill, 
and of whom he had never heard any good, within 
his park palings? And then he could not but acknow- 
ledge to himself that by asking such a one to his 
house, — a man such as this young cousin who was 
known to be the heir to the title, — he had given his 
daughter special reason to suppose that she might re- 
gard him as a fitting suitor for her hand. She of 
course had known, — had felt as keenly as he had fettn 
for was she not a Hotspur? — that she would be true 
to her family by combining her property and the title^ 
and that by yielding to such a marriage she would be 
doing a family duty, unless there were reasons against 
it stronger than those connected with his name. But 
as to those other reasons, must not her Either and her 
mother know better than she could know? When she 
found that the man was made welcome both in torn 
and country, was it not natural that she should sop* 
pose that there were no stronger reasons? All this Sir 
Harry felt, and blamed himself and determined that 
though he must oppose his daughter and make her 
understand that the hope of such a marriage mnst be 
absolutely abandoned, it would be his duty to be very 
tender with her. He had sinned against her alreadyi 
in that he had vacillated and had allowed that hand* 
some but vile and worthless cousin to come near her. 
In his conduct to his daughter, Sir Harry eo- 
deavoured to be just, and leudex^ ^xxd affectionate; 


It in his conduct to his wife on the occasion he al-> 
wed himself some scope for the ill-hmnour not un- 
itorally incident to his misfortune. ''Why on earth 
>a should have had him in Bniton Street when you 
new very well what he was, 1 cannot conceive," said 
ir Harry. 

" But I didn't know," said Lady jpizabeth, fearing 
remind her husband that he also had sanctioned 
he coming of the cousin. 

"I had told you. It was there that the evil was 
lone. And then to let them go to that picnic to- 

"What could I do when Mrs. Fitzpatrick asked to 
be taken? You wouldn't have had me tell'£mily that 
die should not be one of the party." 

"I would have -put it off till he was out of the 

''But the Fitzpatricks were going too," pleaded 
the poor woman. 

"It wouldn't have happened :<aj: all if you had not 
asked him to stay till the Monday, *"' said Sir Harry; 
and to this charge Lady Elizabeth knew that there 
was no answer. There she had clearly disobeyed her 
husband; and though she doubtless suffered much 
from some dim idea of injustice, she was. aware that 
as she had so offended she must submit to be told 
fiat all this evil had come from her wrong-doing. 

"I hope she will not be obstinate," said Sir Hany 


to his wife, Ladj Elizabeth, though she was not as 
acute judge of character, did know her own daughter^ 
and was afraid to say that Emily would not be obstinate. 
She had the strongest possible respect as weU as affec-. 
tion for her own child; she thoroughly believed in 
Emily — much more thoroughly than she did in hersdL 
But she could not say that in such a matter Emily 
would not be obstinate. Lady Elizabeth was vaj 
intimately connected with two obstinate persons, ons 
of whom was young and the other old; and she thought 
that perhaps the younger was the more obstinate of 
the two. 

''It is quite out of the question that she should 
marry him/' said Sir Harry, sadly. Still Lady Eliar 
beth made no reply. ''I do not think that she will 
disobey me/' continued Sir Harry. Still Lady Eliza- 
beth said nothing. "If she gives me a promise » she 
will keep it," said Sir Hairy. 

Then the mother could answer, ''I am sore sha 

''If the worst come to the worst, we moat go 

"To Scarrowby?" suggested Lady Elizabeth, who 
hated Scarrowby. 

"That would do no good. Scarrowby would be 
the same as Humblethwaite to her, or perhaps worse. 
I mean abroad. We must shut up the place for a 
couple of /ears, and take hex to Nanles and Vienni^ 


to Egypt. Everything must be changed 
at is, if the evil has gone deep enough/' 
so very bad?" asked Lady Elizabeth, 
a liar and a blackgiisirdy and I believe him 
ndler," said Sir Harrj^. Then Lady Eliza- 
lite, and her husbancl left her. 

time he hid iiesird the whole story of the 
' the commission , had been told sometning 
raised by worthless cheques, and had run 
that lie about the Goodwood faces. But 

yet heard anything special of Mrs. Morton. 
ittack on George's character which had as 
ade in ihe hearing of Emily had been with 
the Goodwood races. Mrs. Stackpoole 

of some determiiiation, and one who in 
i to show that she was right in her assertions, 
formed oh matters in dispute; and she hated 
)rge. There had therefore come to be a 
said about the Goodwood meeting, so that 
iached Sir Harry's ears. He perceived that 
:>Tge had lied, and determined that Emily 
nade to know that her cousin had lied. JBut 
/ difficult to persuade her of this. That 
eUe should tell stones about George and 
ood meeting seemed to her to be natural 
e contented herself with thinking all manner 
Ir. and Mrs. Stackpoole, and reiterating her 


conviction that George Hotspur had not been 
meeting in question. 

'^I don't know that it much signifies/' Mrs. 
poole had said in anger. 

"Not in the least," Emily had replied, "oi 
I happen to know that my cousin was not ther 
goes to so many race meetings that there ha 
some little mistake." 

Then Mr. Stackpoole had written to Cousin ( 
and Cousin George had thought it wise to m 
reply. Sir Harry, however, from other sourc 
convinced himself of the truth, and had tc 
daughter that there was evidence enough to pr< 
fact in any court of law. Emily when so in 
had simply held her tongue, and had resolved 
Mrs. Stackpoole worse than ever. 

She had been told from the first that her t 
ment with her cousin would not receive her 
sanction; and for some days after that there ha 
silence on the subject at Humblethwaite, wh 
correspondence with Mr. Boltby was being con 
Then there came the moment in which Sir Ha 
that he must call upon his daughter to promise obe 
and the conversation which has been described I 
him and Lady Elizabeth was preparatory to his dc 

**My dear," he said to his daughter, "sit c 
want to speak to you." 

He had sent for her into his own morning 


L which she did not remember to have been asked to 
t down before. She would often visit him there, 
3ming in and out on all manner of small occasions, 
iggesting that he should ride with her, asking for the 
)an of a gardener for a week for some project'of her 
wn, telling him of a big gooseberry, interrupting him 
Qthlessly on any trifle in the world. But on such 
ccasions she would, stand close to him, leaning on 
im. And he would scold her, — playfully, or kiss her, 
r bid her begone from the room, — but would always 
rant what she asked of him. To him, though he 
ardly knew that it was so, such visits from his darling 
lad been the bright moments of his life. But up to 
his morning he had never bade her be seated in that 

"Emily," he said, "I hope you understand that all 
his about your cousin George must be given up." 
Ihe made no reply, though he waited perhaps for a 
oinute. "It is altogether out of the question. I am 
ery, very sorry that you have been subjected to such 
sorrow. I will own that I have been to blame for 
Jtting him come to my house." 

"No, Papa, no." 

"Yes, my dear, I have been to blame, and I feel 
keenly. I did not then know as much of him as I 
now, but I had heard that which should have made 
A careful to keep him out of your company.** 


'^Hearltig about people, Papal Is that &ir? Ait 
we hot siiways hearing tales abotit everybody?** 

"My dear child, you must take my word for sotae- 

"I will take it for everything in all the world, Ps^" 

''He has been a thoroughly bad young man.** 

"But, Papa " 

"You must take my word for it when I tell y<m 
that I have positive proof of what I am telling you.** 

"But, Papa '* 

"Is riot that enough?** 

"No, Papa. I am heartily sorry that he should 
have been what you call a bad young man. I wish 
young men weren't so bad; — that there were no race- 
courses, and betting, and all that. But if he had bece 
my brother instead of my cousin ** 

"Don't talk about your brother , Emily.** 

"Should we hate him because he has been n^ 
steady? Should we not do all that we could in Ae 
world to bring him back? I do not know that we 
are to hate people because they do what they ougfat 
not to do.*' 

"We hate liars." 

"He is not a liar. I will not believe it** 

"Why did he tell you that he was not at those 

races, when he was there as surely as you are bore? 

But, my dear, I will not argue about all this with yoo. 

It Is not right that 1 aVioxxld do «>• WVanq <saly to 


aire into thiese tl^^gs, and yours to believe me and 
obey xne/' Thpn he paused, but his daughter made 

reply to him. p[e looked into her face, and saw 
re that paark about her eyes which he knew he so 
en showed himself; which he so well remembered 
h his father. "I suppose you do believe me^ Emily, 
en I tell you that he is worthless." 

"He need not be worthless always." 

"His conduct has been such that he is unfit to be 
sted with anything." 

"He must be the head of our family some day, 

"That is our misfortune, my dear. No one can 
il it as I do. But I need not add to it the much 
3ater misfortune of sacrificing to him my only child." 

"If he was so bad, why did he come here?" 

"That is true. I did not expect to be rebuked by 
lu, Emily, but I am open to that rebuke." 

'^DfsaTy dear Papa, indeed I did not mean to 
bflke yon. But I cannot give him up." 

"Vp^ ^^ give him up." 

*?Nq, Papa. If I did, I should be false. I will 
)t be false. You say that he is false. I do not know 
at, but I will fipt be false. Let me speak to you for 
le wnute." 

"It is of no use." 

"But you will hear me. Papa. You always hear 
5 when I speak to you." She had left bsx cVaa. 


now, and was standing close to him, not leaning 
him as was her wont in their pleasantest momei 
fellowship, but ready to do so whenever she s. 
find that his mood would permit it. "I will 
marry him without your leave." 

"Thanks, Emily; I know how sacred is a pn 
from you." 

"But mine to him is equally sacred. I shal! 
be engaged to him. I told him how it would b 
said that, as long as you or Mamma lived, I \ 
never marry without your leave. Nor would I see 
or write to him without your knowledge. I toW 
so. But I told him also that I would always be 
to him. I mean to keep my word." 

"If you find him to be utterly worthless, you a 
be bound by such a promise." 

"I hope it may not be so. I do not believe 
it is so. I know him too well to think that he a 
utterly worthless. But if he was, who should t 
save him from worthlessness if not his nearest relaJ 
We try to reclaim the worst criminals, and some 
we succeed. And he must be the head of the fa 
Remember that. Ought we not to try to reclaim 
He cannot be worse than the prodigal son." 

"He is ten times worse. I cannot tell you 
has been his life." 

"Papa, I have often thought that in our ra: 
Ufe society is responsible for the kind of things • 

OF humblethwaite, 107 

ronng men do. If he was at Goodwood, which I do 
lot believe, so was Mr. Stackpoole. If he was betting, 
k> was Mr. Stackpoole." 

"But Mr. Stackpoole did not lie." 

"I don't know that/' she said, with a little toss of 
ber head. 

"Emily, you have no business either to say or to 
think it." 

"I care nothing for Mr. Stackpoole whether he 
tells truth or not. He and his wife have made them- 
selves very disagreeable, — that is all. But as for George, 
he is what he is, because other young men are allowed 
to be the same." 

"You do not know the half of it." 

"I know as much as I want to know. Papa. Let 
One keep as clear of it as one can, it is impossible not 
to hear how young men live. And yet they are allowed 
to go everywhere, and are flattered and encouraged. I 
do not pretend that George is better than others. I 
wish he were. Oh, how I wish it! But such as he is 
he belongs in a way to us, and we ought not to desert 
him. He belongs, I know, to me, and I will not 
desert him." 

Sir Harry felt that there was no arguing with such 
a girl as this. Some time since he had told her that 
it was unfit that he should be brought into an argu- 
ment with his own child, and there yi^& xxo\}cvvcl<^ "c^^^^^ 


for him but to fall back upon the security which that 
assertion gave him. He could not charge her with 
direct disobedience, because she had j^xou^ed him 
that she would not do any of those things which, as 
a father, he had a right to forbid. He relied fiiUy od 
her promise, and so far might feel himself to be safe. 
Nevertheless he was very unhappy. Of what service 
would his child be to him or he to her, if he were 
doomed to see her pining from day to day with an 
unpermitted love? It was the dearest wish of his 
heart to make her happy, as it was his fondest ambi< 
tion to see her so placed in the world that she might 
be the happy transmitter of all the honours of the 
house of Humblethwaite, — if she could not transmit 
all the honours of the name. Time might help him 
And then if she could be made really to see how bas< 
was the clay of which had been made this imagi 
which she believed to be of gold, might it not be dial 
at last she would hate a thing that was so vik? Is 
order that she might do so, he would persist in finding 
out what had been the circumstances of this youn^ 
man's life. If, as he believed, the things which Greorgie 
Hotspur had done were such as in anoth^ rank Ol 
life would send the perpetrator to the treadmill » sorelji 
then she would not cling to her lover. It would not 
be in her nature to prefer that Ti^hich yrza foul and 
abominable and despised of all men. It was after tbiff 
when be had seen Mr, BoVlby , XVaX, ^^ V^^a^ cy(:j:?3nAd 


to him of buying up Cousin George, so that Cousin 
George should himself abandon his engagement. 

"You h^ better go now, my dear," he said, after 
his last speech. "I fully re}y upon the promise you 
have made me. I kno^ that I can rely upon it. And 
you also may rely upon me. I give you my word as 
your father that this man is unfit to be your husband, 
and that I should commit a sin greater than I can 
describe to you lyere I to give my sanction to such a 

Emily made no answer to this, but left the room 
without having once leaned upon her father's shoulder. 

That look of hers troubled him sadly when he was 
alone. What was to be the meaning of it, and what 
the result? She had given him almost unasked the 
only promise which duty required her to give, but at 
the same time she had assured him by her coun- 
tenance, as well as by her words, that she would be 
as faithful to her lover as she was prepared to be 
obedient to her father. And then if there should come 
a long contest of that nature, and if he shoul4^ see 
her devoted year after year to a love which she would 
not even try to cast off from her, how would he be 
able to bear it? He, too, was firm, but he knew him- 
self to be as tender-hearted as he was obstinate. It 
would be^more than he could bear. All the world 
would be nothing for him then. And if there were 
ever to be a question of yielding , it -wowX^ \>^ ^•^\^x 


to do something towards lessening the vllenei 
man now than hereafter. He, too, had some 
knowledge of the world which had taught Lady 
ham to say that the young people in such 
could always beat the old people. Thinking 
and of that look upon his child's brows, h< 
vacillated again. Any amount of dissipation 1 
now have forgiven; but to be a liar, too, and 
ler! Before he went to bed that night he h; 
up his mind to go to London and to see Mr. 




On the day but one after the scene narrated in the 
last chapter Sir Harry went to London, and Lady 
Elizabeth and Emily were left alone together in the 
great house at Humblethwaite. Emily loved her mother 
dearly. The proper relations of life were reversed be^ 
tween them, and the younger domineered over the elder. 
But the love which the daughter felt was probably the 
stronger on this account. Lady Elizabeth never scolded, 
never snubbed, never made herself disagreeable, was 
never cross; and Emily, with her strong perceptions 
and keen intelligence, knew all her mother's excellence, 
and loved it the better because of her mother's weak- 
ness. She preferred her father's company, but no one 
could say she neglected her mother for the sake of her 

Hitherto she had said very little to Lady Elizabeth 
as to her lover. She had, in the first place, told her 
mother, and then had received from her mother, 
second-hand, her father's disapproval. At that time 
she had only said that it was ''too late." Poor Lady 
Elizabeth had been able to make no useful answer to 
this. It certainly was too late. The esW ^^xs^^^asn^ 


been avoided by refusing admittance to Cousin George 
both in London and at Humblethwaite. It certainly 
was too late; — too late, that is, to avoid the evil al- 
together. The girl had been asked for her heart, and 
had given it. It was very much too late. But evils 
such as that do admit of remedy. It is not every girl 
that can marry the man whom she first confesses that 
she loves. Lady Elizabeth had some idea that her 
child, being nobler bom and of more importancp than 
other people's children, ought to have been allowed by 
, fate to do so, — as there certainly is a something with- 
' drawn from the delicate aiojfia, of a first-class young 
woman by any transfer of afiections; — but if it fniglit 
not be so, even an Eqaily Hotspur must subn^t to s^ lot 
' not uncommon among young women in general, and 
; wait and wish till she could acknowledge to herself 
that her heart was susceptible of another wound, 'fl^ 
was the mother's hppe at present, — her hope, when 
she was positively told by Sir Harry that George Hot- 
spur was quite out pf the question as a husb^c} for 
the heiress of Humblethwaite. But this would probably 
come the sooner if little or nothing were said of pporge 

The reader p^ed hardly be told that {Imily benfelf 

regarded the mttter in a very different light She 

also had her ideas about the 4Plicacy and the aroma 

of a maiden's love. She had confessed her love vtsj 

boldly to the man who had ^dLt^ Iot \\\ \vad made 


her rich present with a free haiid, inA hsLd gmdg^d 
nothing in ihe ihsiking of it. But haviiig giveii it, ^he 
understood it to be fixed as the heslvehs that khe 
could never give the same gift again. It watS herdblf 
that she had given, and there was nb retracting the 
offering. She had thought, and had then hoped, and 
had afterwards hoped inore faintly, that thb present 
had been well bestowed; — that in giving it she had 
disposed of herself well. Now they told hef that it 
was not so, and that she could hsirdly have dispttsed 
of herself worse. She would not believe that; but, let 
it be as it might, the thing was done. She was his. 
He had a right in her which she could not ivithdraw 
from him. Was not this sort of giving acknowledged 
by all churches in which the words for *^bettfef or for 
worse" were uttered as part 6f the matriage vow? 
Here there had been as yet ho church vdw, and there- 
fore her duty was still dufe to hfer father. Btit the 30rt 
of sacrifice, — so often a sacrifice of the good to the 
bad, — which the Church not only allowed but irequirfed 
and sanctified, could be as well conveyed by one pro- 
mise as by another. What is a vow but a ptoiiiise? 
and by what process are such voW^ and ^ibmises made 
fitting between a man and a woman? 1§ it hot by 
that compelled rendering up of the h6art which men 
call love? She had found that he was dearer to her 
than everything in the world besides; that to be near 
him was a luxury to her; that his \o\ce ^^s \xi»stf:. \a 


her; that the flame of his eyes was sunh'ght; that Us 
touch was to her, as had never been the touch of any 
other human being. She could submit to him, she 
who never would submit to any one. She could delight 
to do his bidding, even though it were to bring bun 
his slippers. She had confessed nothing of this, even 
to herself, till he had spoken to her on the bridge; 
but then, in a moment, she had known that it was so, 
and had not coyed the truth with him by a single nay. 
And now they told her that he was bad. 

Bad as he was, he had been good enough to win 
her. 'Twas thus she argued with herself. Who was 
she that she should claim for herself the right of 
having a man that was not bad? That other man 
that had come to her, that Lord Alfred, was, she was 
told, good at all points ; and he had not moved her in 
the least. His voice had possessed no music for her; 
and as for fetching his slippers for him, — he was to 
her one of those men who seem to be created just 
that they might be civil when wanted and then get 
out of the way! She had not been able for a moment 
to bring herself to think of regarding him as her hus- 
band. But this man, this bad man! From the moment 
that he had spoken to her on the bridge, she knew 
that she was his for ever. 

It might be that she liked a bad man best. So she 
argued with herself again. If it were so she must put 
vj> with what misfortune her own taste might bring 


upon her. At any rate the thing was done, and why 
should any man be thrown over simply because the 
world called him bad? Was there to be no forgiveness 
for wrongs done between man and man, when the 
whole theory of our religion was made to depend on 
forgiveness from God to man? It is the duty of some 
one to reclaim an evident prodigal ; and why should it 
not be her duty to reclaim this prodigal? Clearly, the 
very fact that she loved the prodigal would give her a 
potentiality that way which she would have with no 
other prodigal. It was at any rate her duty to try. It 
would at least be her duty if they would allow her to 
be near enough to him to make the attempt. Then 
she filled her mind with ideas of a long period of 
probation, in which every best energy of her existence 
should be given to this work of reclaiming the prodigal, 
so that at last she might put her own hand into one 
that should be clean enough to receive it With such 
a task before her she could wait. She coUd watch 
him and give all her heart to his welfare, and never be 
impgitient except that he might be made happy. As she 
thought of this, she told herself plainly that the work 
would not be easy, that there would be disappointment, 
almost heart-break, delays and sorrows; but she loved 
him, and it would be her duty ; and then, if she could 
be successful, how great, how full of joy would be the 
triumph! Even if she were to fail and perish in failing, 
it would be her duty. As for giving Vvvnv. \x^ Xi^^-sasfe 


he had the misfortune to be bad, she would as sooa 
give hitn up oh the score of any other inisfortime;— 
because he might lose si leg, or become defbnhed, or 
be stricken deaf by God's hand! One does not desert 
those one loves, because of their misfortunes I Twas 
thus she argued with herself, thinking that she could 
see, — ^whereas, poor child, she was so very blind 1 

''Mamma," she said, ''has Papa gone up to town 
about Cousin George?" 

"I do not know, my dear. He did not say why he 
was going." 

"I think he has. I wish I could make him under- 

"Understand what, my dear?" 

"All that I feel about it. I am sure it would save 
him much trouble. Nothing can ever separate me from 
my cousin." 

"Pray don't say so, Emily." 

"Nothing can. Is it not better that you and he 
should know the truth? Papa goes about trying to find 
out all the naughty things that George has ever done. 
There has been some mistake about a race meeting, 
and all manner of people are asked to give what P^ 
calls evidence that Cousin George was there. I do 
not doubt but George has been what people call 

"We do hear such dreadfial stories!" 

''You would not have iViow^hl anything about diem 


bad not been for me. He is not worse now than 
Q he came down here last year. And he was 
i|9 asked to Bmton Stireet" 
'^What do you mean by this, dear?'' 
^I do act caean to say that young men ought to 
lU these things, whatever they are, — getting into 
',^ and betting, and living fiEist Of course it is 

wrong. But when a young man has been brought 
n that way, I do think he ought not to be thrown 

by his nearest and dearest friends" — ^that last 
let was uttered with all the emphasis which 
\j could give to it — ''because he falls into tempta- 


^4 am afhdd Gecxge has been worse than others, 

'So much the more reason for trying to save hinl. 
man be in thti water, you do not refuse to throw 
a rope because the water i^ deep.'' 

"But, dearest, your papa Is thinking of you.'* Lady 
ibetfa was not quick enough of thought to explain 
ler daughter that if the rope be of more value 
the man, and if the chance of losing the rope 
nuch greater than that of saving the man, then 
rope is nbt thrown. 

''And I am thinking of Geoige,^* said Emily. 

''But if it should appear that he had done things,-— 
wickedest things in the world?" 



''I might break my heart in thinking of it, but I 
should never give him up." 

^'If he were a murderer? '* suggested Ladj EBah 
beth, with horror. 

The girl paused, feeling herself to be hardly pressed, 
and then came that look upon her brow whidi Lady 
Elizabeth understood as well as did Sir Harry. ^'Then 
I would be a murderer's wife/' she said. 

"Oh, Emily!" 

"I must make you understand me, Mamma, aad I 
want Papa to understand it too. No consideration on 
earth shall make me say that I will give him up. They 
may prove if they like that he was on all the race- 
courses in the world, and get that Mrs. Staclq>oole to 
swear to it; — and it is ten times worse for a woman 
to go than it is for a man, at any rate; — but it wili 
make no difference. K you and Papa tell me not to 
see him or write to him, — much less to many him,— 
of course I shall obey you. But I shall not give him { 
up a bit the more, and he must not be told that I will i 
give him up. I am sure Papa will no«. wif h that any- 
thing untrue should be told. George will always be to 
me the dearest thing in the whole world, — dearer than 
my own soul. I shall pray for him eveiy night, and < 
think of him all day long. And as to the property, 
Papa may be quite sure that he can never arrange it 
by any marriage that I shall make. No man shall ever 
speak to me in that way, ii 1 can \^^\^ \V. \ Hioiix. ^ 


anj man can speak to me. I will obey, — but it 
1 be at the cost of my life. Of course I will obey 
[>a and you; but I cannot alter my heart. Why was 
allowed to come here, — the head of our own family, 
[f he be so bad as this? Bad or good, he will. always 
all the world to me." 

To such a daughter as this Lady Elizabeth had very 
le to say that might be of avail. She could quote 

Harry, and entertain some dim distant wish that 
usih George might even yet be found to be not 
ite so black as he had been painted. 




Ooittin George it Inol 

Thb V617 sensible and, as one would hm iboofjttf 
very manifest idea of bnjing up Coosin GeoqjS 
originated with Mr. Boltbj. ^^ He- will have his prices 
Sir Harry" said the lawyer. Thai Sir Hany's qfei 
were opened, and so excellent did this mode of eso^ 
seem to him that he was ready to pay almost any pzice 
for the article. He saw it at a glance. Emily had 
high-flown notions, and would not yield; he feared 
that she would not yield, let Cousin Greorge's delin- 
quencies be shown to be as black as Styx. But if 
Cousin George could be made to give her up, — ^then 
Emily must yield; and, yielding in such manner^ 
having received so rude a proof of her lover's nn" 
woithiness, it could not be but that her heart would 
be changed. Sir Harry's first idea of a price was very 
noble; all debts to be paid, a thousand a year for the 
present, and Scarrowby to be attached to the title. What 
price would be too high to pay for the extrication of 
his daughter from so grievous a misfortune? But Mir. 
Boltby was more calm. As to the payment of the 
debts, — ^yes, within a certain liberal limit. For die 
present, an income of five hundred pounds he tfaoq^ 


[ be almost as efBcacioiu z. bait as double tl 

: and it would be well to tack to it toe oece^ 

I' of a residence aWoad. It mig'ht, perhaps, serve 

\i get the young mar. out of the country for a time. 

Ithe young man bargained on either of these head- 

]g», the matter could be reconsidered by Mr. Boltby; 

» to settling Scarrowby on the title, Mr. Boltby was 

kaily against it. "He would raise every shilling he 

•nJd on post-obits within twelve months." At last 

K offer was made in the terms with which the reader 

I already acquainted. George vraa sent off irom the 

layer's chambers with directions to consider ihe terms, 

■d Mr. Boltby gave his clerk some little instructions 

Ir perpetuating the irritation on the young man which 

fart and Slubber together were able to produce. The 

bong man should be made to understand that hungry 

feditors, who had been promised their moneiy on 

ntain conditions, could become very hungry indeed. 

George Hotspur, blackguard and worthless as ha 

las, did not at first reaUze the Eact that Sir Hany 

I Mr. Boltby were endeavouring to buy him. Ho 

s asked to give up his cousin, and he was told that 

the did so a certain very generous amount of pecu- 

uy assistance should be given to him ; but yet he 

1 not at the first glance perceive that one was to be 

! price of the other, — that if he took the one he 

aniy have sold the other. It certainly would 

I very pleasant to have all his debts ^wd fat 




him, and the ofifer of five hundred pounds a year 
very comfortable. Of the additional sum to be 
when Sir Harry should die, he did not think so 
It might probably be a long time coming, and 
Sir Harry would of course be bound to do 
for the title. As for living abroad, — ^he might prmnto 
that, but they could not make him keep his pronusob 
He would not dislike to travel for six months^ on ooori 
dition that he should be well provided with readf 
money. There was much that was alluring in tfas 
offer, and he began to think whether he could not get 
it all without actually abandoning his cousin* Bat 
then he was to give a written pledge to that effect, 
which, if given, no doubt would be shown to bffi 
No; that would not do. Emily was his priie; and 
though he did not value her at her worth, not nnde^ 
standing such worth, still he had an idea that she 
would be true to him. Then at last came upon him 
an understanding of the fiEurt, and he perceived that a 
bribe had been offered to him. 

For half a day he was so disgusted at the idea tibat 
his virtue was rampant within him. Sell his Emily fot 
money? Never! His Emily, — ^and all her rich pro- 
spects, and that for a sum so inadequate! They little 
knew their man when they made a proposition so vilel 
That evening, at his dub, he wrote a letter to Sir 
Harry, and the letter as soon as written was put into 
the club letter-box 9 addressed to the house in Bniton 


t; in which y with much indignant eloquence, he 
red that the Baronet little understood the warmth 
3 love 9 or the extent of his ambition in regard to 
Eunily. **1 shall be quite ready to submit to any 
ments/' he said, ''so long as the property is 
led upon the Baronet who shall come after myself; 
id not say that I hope the happy fellow may be 
»wn son." 

tut, on the next morning, on his first waking, his 
were more vague, and a circumstance happened 
1 tended to divert them from the current in which 
had run on the preceding evening. When he was 
J through the sad work of dressing, he bethought 
3lf that he could not at once force this marriage 
lir Harry — could not do so, perhaps, within a 
emonth or more, let Emily be ever so true to 
— ^and that his mode of living had become so 
irious as to be almost incompatible with that out- 
decency which would be necessary for him as 
y's suitor. He was still very indignant at the 
made to him, which was indeed bribery of which 
!arry ought to be ashamed; but he almost regretted 
his letter to Sir Harry had been sent. It had not 
considered enough, and certainly should not have 
written simply on after-dinner consideration, 
ithing might have been inserted with the view of 
iicing ready money, something which might have 
a. flavour of yielding, but which could not have 



been shown to Emily as an offer <m his part to abandM' 
her; and then he had a genoal feeling that fai» htttf 
had been too grandiloquent, — bA arising, no doobC» 
from a fall in coorage incidental to a sick stoiaadi. 

But before he could get out of his hotel a visitor 
was upon him. Mr. Hart desired to see him. At tUl 
moment he would almost have preferred to see Captain 
Stubber. He remembered at the moment that Mr. 
Hart was acquainted with Mr. Walker, and that Mr. 
Walker would probably have sought the society of Mr. 
Hart after a late occurrence in which he, Cousin George, 
had taken part. He was going across to break&t at 
his club, when he found himself almost forced to 
accompany Mr. Hart into a little private room at the 
left hand of the hall of the hotel. He wanted his 
breakfast badly, and was altogether out of humoar. 
He had usually found Mr. Hart to be an enduring 
man, not irascible, though very pertinacious, and 
sometimes almost good-natured. For a moment he 
thought he would bully Mr. Hart, but when he looked 
into Mr. Hart's face, his heart misgave him. "This 

is a most inconvenient time ,'* he had begun. But 

he hesitated, and Mr. Hart began his attack at once. 

"Captain 'Oshspur — sir, let me tell you this von't 
do no longer." 

"What won't do, IVfr. Hart?" 

"Vat von't do? You know vat von't do. Let nu 


tm you this. You'll be at the Old Bailey very soon, 
r yotf dbil^ do Jmt vat yoa is told to do/' 

"Me at the Old Baitey!" 

"Yes, Captain 'Oshspur, — ^you at the Old Bailey. 
a vat vay did you get those moneys from poor Mr. 
^alker? I know vat I says. More than three hundred 
lounds! It was card-sharping." 

"Who says it Was card-sharping?" 

"I says so, Captain 'Oshspur, and so does Mr. 
tullbjean. Mr. Bullbean vill prove it." Mr. BuUbean 
^as a gentleman known well to Mr. Hart, who had 
Ciade one of the little party at Mr. Walker's establish- 
aent, by means of which Cousin George had gone, 
tkSh of money, down among his distinguished friends 
a Norfolk. "Vat did you do with poor Valker's 
aotfeys? It vas very hard upon poor Mr. Vjdker, — 
ery hard." 

"it was fair play, Mr. Hart." 

"Gammon, Captain 'Oshspur! Vere is the moneys?" 

"What business is that of yours?" 

"Oh, very well. Bulft)ean is quite ready to go 
efore a magistrate, — ready at once. I don't know 
ow that vill help us with our pretty cousin with all 
lie fortune." 

"How will it help you then?" 

"Look here, Captain 'Oshspur; I vill tell you vat 
ill help me, and vill help Captain Stubber, and vill 
d^ eveiybody. The young lady isn't Cot ^ov). ^ ^i^ 


I know all about it, Captain 'Oshspur. Mr. Boltbjr ii 
a very nice gentleman, and understands business." 

"What is Mr. Boltby to me?" 

"He is a great deal to me, because he vill pay mc 
my moneys, and he vill pay Captain Stabber, and vil 
pay everybody. He vill pay you too. Captain 'Oshspur, 
— only you must pay poor Valker his moneys. I hav< 
promised Valker he shall have back his moneys, oi 
Sir Harry shall know that too. You must just give nf 
the young woman; — eh. Captain 'Oshspur!" 

"I'm not going to be dictated to, Mr. Hart." 

"When gentlemans is in debt they must be dictated 
to, or else be quodded. We mean to have our mone) 
from Mr. Boltby, and that at once. Here is the offa 
to pay it, — every shilling, — and to pay you! Yon 
must give the lady up. You must go to Mr. Boltby, 
and write just what he tells you. If you don't !' 

"Well, if I don't!" 

"By the living God, before two weeks are ovo 
you shall be in prison. Bullbean saw it all. Now yot 
know. Captain 'Oshspur. You don't like dictating to 
don't you? If you don't do as you're dictated to, an( 
that mighty sharp, as sure as my name is Abrahan 

Hart, everything shall come out. Every d d thing 

Captain 'Oshspur! And now good morning, Captaii 
'Oshspur. You had better see Mr. Boltby to-day 
Captain 'Oshspur." 

How was a man so we\gVi\j&d to lun for such stakei 


as those he was striving to carry ofif? When Mr. Hart 
left him he was not only sick in the stomach, but sick 
at heart also, — sick all over. He had gone from had 
to worse; he had lost the knowledge of the flavour of 
vice and virtue; and yet now, when there was present 
to him the vanishing possihility of redeeming every- 
thing hy this great marriage, it seemed to him that a 
life of honourable ease — such a life as Sir Harry would 
wish him to live if permitted to marry the girl and 
dwell among his friends at Humblethwaite — would be 
much sweeter, much more to his real taste, than the 
life which he had led for the last ten years. What 
had been his positive delights? In what moments 
had he actually enjoyed them? From first to last had 
there not been trouble and danger and vexation of 
spirit 9 and a savour of dirt about it all, which even to 
his palate had been nauseous? Would he not willingly 
reform? And yet, when the prospect of reform was 
brought within reach of his eyes, of a reform so 
pleasant in all its accompaniments, of reform amidst 
all the wealth of Humblethwaite, with Emily Hotspur 
by his side, there came these harpies down upon him 
rendering it all impossible. Thrice, in speaking of 
them to himself, he called them harpies; but it never 
occured to him to think by what name Mr. Walker 
would have designated him. 

But things around him were becoming so serious 
&at he must do something. It mi{^V. \^ ^^ ^^^ 


would fall to the ground , losing eviNytbing. Bb 
could not understand about Bullbean. BuDbean had 
had his share of the plundeir in regard to nil fltttt he 
had seen. The best part of the evening's entdrtain- 
ment had taken place after Mr. Bullbean had retiiCid. 
No doubt, however, Mr. Bullbean might do him a 

He had written to Sir Harry, refusing ahogeAer 
the offer made to him. Could he, after writing sndi 
a letter, at once go to the lawyer and accept the offer? 
And must he admit to himself, filially, that it was 
altogether beyond his power to win his cousin's hand? 
Was there no hope of that Hfe at Humblethwaite 
which, when contemplated at a distance, had seemed 
to him to be so green and pleasant? And wbat 
would Emily think of him? In the midst of all Us 
other miseries that also was a miseiy. He was aUe^ 
though steeped in worthlessness, so to make for hfttt- 
self a double identity as to imagine and to personify 
a being who should really possess fine and manlj 
aspirations with regard to a woman, and to look upon 
himself, — his second self, — as that being; and to per- 
ceive with how withering a contempt such a bdag 
would contemplate such another man as was in troih 
the real George Hotspur, whose actual sorrows atid 
troubles had now become so unendurable. 

Who would help him in his distress? The Altring- 
bams were still in Scotlaxidf axvd \x^ Vjo^issi ^dl that, 


^bpiigb Lady Altringham was fond of him, and though 
Xoid Altringham liked him, there was no assistance 
tp )>e bad there of the kind that he needed. His 
^fearlj intimate distinguished friends in Norfolk, with 
Thorn he had been always "George," would not care 
if they heard that he had been crucified. It seemed 
to him that the world was very hard and very cruel. 
3Vho did care for him? There were two women who 
cared for him, who really loved him, who would 
make almost any sacrifice for him, who would even 
forget his sins, or at least forgive them. He was sure 
of that. Emily Hotspur loved him, but there were no 
means by which he could reach Emily Hotspur. She 
loved him, but she would not so far disobey her father 
and mother, or depart from her own word, as to re- 
ceive even a letter from him. But the other friend 
who loved him, — ^he still could see her. He knew well 
the time at which he would find her at home , and 
some three or four hours after his interview with Mr. 
Hart he knocked at Mrs. Morton's door. 

^Well, Greorge/' she said, "how does your wooing 

Hfs had no preconceived plan in coming to her. 
Ha was possessed by that desire, which we all of us 
to of^ feely to be comforted by sympathy; but he 
baldly knew even how to describe the want of it. 

**li does not thrive at all," he said, throwing him- 
into an easy chair. 


'*That is bad news. Has the lady turned against 

''Oh no/' said he, moodily, — ''nothing of that 

"That would be impossible, would it not? Fathers 
are stern, but to such a one as you daughters are 
always kind. That is what you mean; eh, George?" 

"I wish you would not chaff me, Luoy. I am not 
well, and I did not come to be chaffed.'' 

"The chaffing is all to be on one side, is it, 
George? Well; I will say nothing to add to your 
discomforts. What is it ails you? You will drink 
liqueurs after dinner. That is what makes you so 
wretched. And I believe yon drink them before dinner 

"Hardly ever. I don't do such a thing three times 
in a month. It is not that; but things do trouble 

me so." 

"I suppose Sir Hany is not well pleased." 

"He is doing what he ought not to do, I most say 
that; — quite what I call ungentlemanlike. A lawyer 
should never be allowed to interfere between gentle- 
men. I wonder who would stand it, if an attomfly 
were set to work to make all manner of inqubiei 
about everything that he had ever done?" 

"I could not, certainly. I should cave in at onoe^ 
as the hoys say.** 


''Other men have been as bad as I have, I suppose. 
e is sliding about everywhere.'* ' 

''Not only sending, George, bat going himself. Do 
m know that Sir Harry did me the honour of visiting 


"But he did. He sat there in that very chair, 
id talked to me in a manner that nobody ever did 
sfore, certainly. What a fine old man he is, and 
3W handsome I'' 

"Yes; he is a good-looking old fellow.'* 

"So like you, Geoige.'* 

"Is he?'' 

"Only you know, less, — less, — less, what shall I 
ly ? less good-natured, perhaps." 

"I know what you mean. He is not such a fool 

"You're not a fool at all, George; but sometimes 
3u are weak. He looks to be strong. Is she like 

"Very like him." 

"Then she must be handsome." 

"Handsome; I should think she is tool" said 
«orge, quite forgetting the description of his cousin 
hich he had given some days previously to Mrs. 

She smiled, but took no notice aloud of his 
under. She knew him so well that ^Vk& \3isA^\^^^^ 




it all. ''Yes,'' she went on; ''he came here Ad 
some bitter things. He said snoce, perlwfA* Omi 
ought to have dope.*' 

"About me, J-uqr?*' 

"I think that he spoke diieflj about myself. Thm 
was a little explanation, and then he behttfod ntf 
well. I have no quarrel with him myseU^ Sis ifl H Aae 
old gentleman; and having one on)y dMff^tm$ 9fiAl^\ 
large fortune, I do not wondei that he lAiQldd iWit if- 
make inquiries before he gives her to ypQ^" 

"He could do that withont an attorney.'^ 

"Would you tell him the troth? TUe Act toi Gfssqjfl^ 
that you are not the sort of son-in-law tliat ftiheil KIca> 
I suppose it will be off; eh, George? -' Geof^j^ mA 
no immediate reply. "It is not likely t||at abe sh^ 
have the constancy to stick to it for years^ ^md I sm 
sure you will not. Has he offered you money?" Tk^ft 
George told her ahnost with accuracy the "wt^fre of 
the proposition made to him. 

"It is veiy generous," she said. 

"I don't see much of that" 
It certainly is very geneii0us< 
'What ought a fellow to do? 

"Only fanc^, that you should come to 910 Ip lA 
me snch a question!" 

'I know you will tell me true." 
'Do you love her?" 









"With aU your heart?" 

'^What is the meaning of that? I do love her/' 

"Better than her father's money?" 

"Much better." 

"Then stick to her through thick and thin* But 
rem don't. I must not advise you in accordance with 
that yott say, but with what I think. You will be 
)taten, certainly. She will never be your wife; and 
irere you so married, you would not be happy with 
inch people. But she will never be your wife. Take 
Sir Harry's offer, and write to her a letter, explaining 
tiow it is best for all that you should do so." 

He paused a moment, and then he asked her one 
itber question: ''Would you write the letter for me, 

She smiled again as she answered liim: ''Yes; 
f you make up your mind to do as Sir Harry asks 
'ou, I will write a draft of what I think you should 
aj to her." 

^sr Harry ffatf^ur. V^ 



Sir Hanry^s Return. 

Sir Harry received the grandly worded i 
dignant letter which had been written at th 
and Cousin George hesitated as to that othe 
which his friend was to dictate for him* 
quently it became necessary that Sir Harry 
leave London before the matter was settle 
truth the old Baronet liked the grandly word 
indignant letter. It was almost such a lette 
Hotspur should write on such an occasion, 
was an admission of pecuniary weakness whi 
not quite become a Hotspur, but otherwise th 
was a good letter. Before he left London he t 
letter with him to Mr. Boltby, and on his way 
could not refrain from counting up all the good 
which would befall him and his if only this 
man might be reclaimed and recast in a mou 
as should fit the heir of the Hotspurs. He ha 
very bad, — so bad that when Sir Harry coun 
his sins they seemed to be as black as night 
then, as he thought of them, the father would 
to himself that he would not imperil his daug] 
tnistiiig her to one who had shown himself tc 


evil. But again another mode of looking at it, all 
would come upon him. The kind of vice of which 
George had been undoubtedly guilty was very distaste- 
ful to Sir Harry; it had been ignoble and ungentleman- 
like vice. He had been a liar, and not only a gambler, 
but a professional gambler. He had not simply got 
into debt, but he had got into debt in a fashion that 
was fraudulent; — so at least Sir Harry thought. And 
yet, need it be said that this reprobate was beyond u 
the reach of all forgiveness? Had not men before him 
done as bad, and yet were brought back within the 
pale of decent life? In this still vacillating mood of 
mind Sir Harry reached his lawyer's. Mr. Boltby did 
not vacillate at all. When he was shown the letter he 
merely smiled. 

"I don't think it is a bad letter," said Sir Harry. 

** Words mean so little, Sir Harry," said Mr. Boltby, 
''and come so cheap/' 

Sir Harry turned the letter over in his hand and 
frowned; he did not quite like to be told even by his 
confidential lawyer that he was mistaken. Uncon- 
sdously he was telling himself that after all George 
Hotspur had been born a gentleman, and that therefore, 
underlying all the young man's vileness and villany 
there must be a substratum of noble soil of which the 
lawyer perhaps knew nothing. Mr. Boltby saw that 
Ulf client was doubting, and having gvveti 'TOvxs2a.\x^''5is^ 


to the matter, and not being afraid of Sir Harry, 
determined to speak his mind freely. 

"Sir Harry," he said, *'in this matter I must 
you what I really think." 


"I am sorry to have to speak ill of one bea 
your name; and were not the matter m-gent as : 
I should probably repress something of my opii 
As it is, I do not dare to do so. You could nc 
all London find a man less fit to be the husban 
Miss Hotspur than her cousin." 

"He is a gentleman — by birth," said Sir Harrj 

"He is an unprincipled blackguard by educa 
and the more blackguard because of his birth ; the 
nothing too bad for him to do, and very little so 
but what he has done it. He is a gambler, a swin 
and, as I believe, a forger and a card-sharper. He 
lived upon the wages of the woman he has profe 
to love. He has shown himself to be utterly spirit 
abominable, and vile. If my clerk in the next i 
were to slap his face, I do not believe that he w 
resent it." Sir Harry frowned, and moved his 
rapidly on the floor. "In my thorough respect 
regard for you. Sir Harry," continued Mr. Bo 
"I have undertaken a work which I would not 
done for above two or three other men in the ^ 
beside yourself. I am bound to tell yon the n 
which is this, — that I would sooner give my 


giri to the sweeper at the crossing than to George 

Sir Harry's brow was very black. Perhaps he had 
not quite known his lawyer. Perhaps it was that he 
had less power of endurance than he had himself 
thought in regard to the mention of his own family 
affairs. "Of course," he said, "I am greaily indebted 
to you, Mr. Boltby, for the trouble you have taken." 

"I only hope it may be of service to you." 

"It has been of service. What may be the result 
in regard to this unfortunate young man I cannot yet 
say. He has refused our offer, — I must say as I think 
— honourably." 

"It means nothing." 

"How nothing, Mr. Boltby?" 

"No man accepts such a bargain at first. He is 
playing his hand against yours. Sir Harry, and he 
knows that he has got a very good card in his own. 
It was not to be supposed that he would give in at 
once. In besieging a town the surest way is to 
starve the garrison. Wait a while and he will give 
in. When a town has within its walls such vultures 
as will now settle upon him, it cannot stand out very 
long. I shall hear more of him before many days are 


"You think, then, that I may return to Humble- 

"Certainly, Sir Harry; but I hop^, ^\x l^-ax-vj ^ Sica^ 


you will return with the settled conviction on your 
mind that this young man must not on any considaaF 
tion be allowed to enter your family/' 

The lawyer meant well, but he overdid his woiL 
Sir Harry got up and shook hands with him and 
thanked him, but left the room with some sense of 
oflfence. He had come to Mr. Boltby for information, 
and he had received it. But he was not quite sure 
that he had intended that Mr. Boltby should advise 
him touching his management of his own daughter. 
Mr. Boltby, he thought, had gone a little beyond his 
tether. Sir Harry acknowledged to himself that he 
had learned a great deal about his cousin, and it was 
for him to judge after that whether he would receive 
his cousin at Humblethwaite. Mr. Boltby should not 
have spoken about the crossing-sweeper. And then 
Sir Harry was not quite sure that he liked that idea of 
setting vultures upon a man; and Sir Harry remembered 
something of his old lore as a hunting man. It is 
astonishing what blood will do in bringing a horse 
through mud at the end of a long day. Mr. Boltby 
probably did not understand how much, at the veiy 
last, might be expected from breeding. When Sk 
Harry left Mr. Boltby's chambers he was almost better- 
minded towards Cousin George than he had been 
when he entered them; and in this frame of mind, 
both for and against the young man, he returned to 
Humblethwaite, It must nol "be sw^^o^ed^ howeveTi 


bat as the result of the whole he was prepared to 
ield. He knew, beyond all doubt, that his cousin 
ras thoroughly a bad subject, — a worthless and, as he 
»elieved, an irredeemable scamp; but yet he thought 
if what might happen if he were to yield! 

Things were very sombre when he reached 
lumblethwaite. Of course his wife could not refrain 
rom questions. "It is very bad," he said, — "as bad 
5 can be." 

"He has gambled?" 

"Gambled! If that were all! You had better not 
Lsk about it; he is a disgrace to the family." 

"Then there can be no hope for Emily?" 

"No hope! Why should there not be hope? All 
ler life need not depend on her fancy for a man of 
vhom after all she has not seen so very much. She 
nust get over it. Other girls have had to do the 

"She is not like other girls, Harry.*' 

"How not like them?" 

"I think she is more persistent; she has set her 
leart upon loving this young man, and she will love 

"Then she must." 

"She will break her heart," said Lady Elizabeth. 

"She will break mine, I know," said Sir Harry. 

When he met his daughter he had embraced her, 
ud she had kissed . him and asked after his ^e\£^x.^\ 


but he felt at once that she was different horn what 
she used to be,— different, not only as regarded her- 
self, but different also in her manner. There came 
npon him a sad, ponderous conviction that the sun- 
light had gone out from their joint lives, that all 
pleasant things were over for both of them, and that, 
as for him, it would be well for him that he should 

I die. He could not be happy if there were discord 
between him and his child, — and there must be discord. 
The man had been invited with a price to take him- 
self off, and had not been sufficiently ignoble to accept 
the offer. How could he avoid the discord, and l»iog 
back the warmth of the sun into his house? Then he 
remembered those terribly forcible epithets which Mr. 
Boltby had spoken. <*He is an unprincipled black- 
guard; and the worse blackguard because of his birth." 
The words had made Sir Harry angry, but he believed 
them to be true. If there were to be any yieldiog» 
he would not yield as yet; but that living in his 
house without sunshine was very grievous to him 
''She will kill me," he said to himself^ ''if she goes 
on like this." 

And yet it was hard to say of what it was that he 
complained. Days went by and his daughter said 
nothing and did nothing of which he could comj^ain. 
It was simply this, — that the sunshine was no longer 
bright within his halls. Days went by, and Geoige 

Hotspur's name had never \>tea «^Vsa b^ Emilj is 


tiie hearing of her father or mother. Such duties as 
thtve were for her to do were done. The active duties 
€f a girl in her position are very few. It was her 
cnstom of a morning to spread butter on a bit of toast 
for her father to eat This she still did, and brought 
it to him as was her wont; but she did not bring it 
with her old manner. It was a thing still done, — 
timplj because not to do it would be an omission to 
be remarked. "Never mind it/' said her father the 
fourth or fifth morning after his return , 'Td sooner 
do it for myself." She did not say a word, but on 
the next morning the little ceremony , which had once 
been so full of pleasant affection , was discontinued. 
Sbe had certain hours of reading, and these were 
prolonged rather than abandoned. But both her 
father and mother perceived that her books were 
changed; her Italian was given up, and she took to 
works of religion, — sermons, treatises, and long com- 

It will kill me," said Sir Harry to his wife. 
I am afraid it will kill her," said Lady Elizabeth. 
"Do you see how her colour has gone, and she eats 
90 little 1" 

"She walks every day." 

"Yes; and comes in so tired. And she goes to 
dmrch every Wednesday and Friday at Hesket. I'm 
Bare she is not fit for it such weather as this." 

^^She has the carriage?" 


"No, she walks." 

Then Sir Harry gave orders that his dangfater 
should always have the carriage on Wednesdays and 
Fridays. But Emily, when her mother told her tiiis, 
insisted that she would sooner walk. 

But what did the carriage or no carriage on Wed- 
nesday signify? The trouble was deeper than that It 
was so deep that both father and mother felt that 
something must be done, or the trouble would become 
too heavy for their backs. Ten days passed and nothing 
was heard either from Mr. Boltby or from Cousin George. 
Sir Harry hardly knew what it was then he espetitod 
to hear; but it seemed that he did expect something. 
He was nervous at the hour of post, and was aware ! 
himself that he was existing on from day to day witii 
the idea of soon doing some special thing, — he knew 
not what, — but something that might put an end to 
the frightful condition of estrangement between him 
and his child in which he was now living. It tdd 
even upon his duty among his tenants. It told upon 
his farm. It told upon almost every workman in the 
parish. He had no heart for doing anjrthing. It did 
not seem certain to him that he could continue to live 
in his own house. He could not bring himself to order , 
that this wood should be cut, or that those projected 
cottages should be built. Everything was at a stand- 
still; and it was clear to him that Emily knew that aD 
thJs had come from her lasYiYoN^ ioxY^st c:niQaltL< 


She never now came and stood at his elbow in his 
own room, or leaned upon his shoulder; she never 
now asked him questions, or brought him out from his 
papers to decide questions in the garden, — or rather 
to allow himself to be ruled by her decisions. There 
were greetings between them morning and evening, and 
questions were asked and answered formally; but there 
was no conversation. "What have I done that I should ^ 
be punished in this way?" said Sir Harry to himself. 

If he was prompt to think himself hardly used, so 
also was his daughter. In considering the matter in 
her own mind she had found it to be her duty to obey 
her father in her outward conduct, founding her con- 
victions in this matter upon precedent and upon the 
general convictions of the world. In the matter of 
bestowing herself upon a suitor, a girl is held to be 
subject to her parents. So much she knew, or believed 
that she knew; and therefore she would obey. She 
had read and heard of girls who would correspond 
with their lovers clandestinely, would run away with 
their lovers, would marry their lovers as it were behind 
their £^hers' backs. No act of this kind would she do. 
She had something within her which would make it 
dreadful to her ever to have to admit that she had 
been personally wrong, — some mixture of pride and 
principle, which was strong enough to keep her sted- 
fast in her promised obedience. She would do nothing 
that could be thrown in her teetVi; ivo^m^ SJoaX. ^qv^^ 


be CEiiled unfeminine, indelicate, or undutiful. But she 
had high ideas of what was due to herself » and con- 
ceived that she would be wronged by her father, should 
her father take advantage of her sense of duty to crusb 
her heart. She had her own rights and her own privi- 
leges, with which grievous and cruel intlsrference 
would be made, should her father, because he was her 
father, rob her of the only thing which was sweet to 
her taste or desirable in her esteem. Because she was 
his heiress he had no right to make her his slave. .But 
even should he do so, she had in her own hands a 
certain security. The bondage of a slave no doubt he 
might allot to her, but not the task-work. Because 
she would cling to her duty and keep the promise 
which she had made to him, it would be in his power 
to prevent the marriage upon which she had set her 
hesLrt; but it was not within his power » or within his 
privilege as a father, to force upon her any otner mar- 
riage. She would never help him with her hand in 
that adjustment of his property of which he thought so 
much unless he would help her in her love. And in 
the meantime sunshine should be banished from the 
house, such sunshine as had shone round her headi 
She did not so esteem herself as to suppose that, be- 
cause she was sad, therefore her father and modier 
would be wretched; but she did feel herself bound to 
contribute to the house in general all the wretchedness 
which might come from Yiti O'wti "w^sil of sunlight. 


She suffered under a terrible feeling of ill-usage. Why 
iiras she, because she was a girl and an heiress, to be 
debarred from her own happiness? If she were willing 
to risk herself, why should others interfere? And if 
the life and conduct of her cousin were in truth so 
bad as they were represented, — which she did not in 
the least believe, — why had he been allowed to come 
within her reach? It was not only that he was young, 
clever, handsome, and in every way attractive, but that, 
in addition to all this, he was a Hotspur, and would 
some day be the head of the Hotspurs. Her father had 
known well enough that her family pride was equal to his 
own. Was it not natural that, when a man so endowed 
had come in her way, she should learn to love him? 
And when she had loved him, was it not right that 
3he should cling to her love? 

Her father would fain treat her like a beast oi 
burden kept in the stables for a purpose; or like a dog 
whose obedience and affections might be transferred 
from one master to another for a price. She would obey 
b^ father; but her father should be made to understand 
that hers was not the nature of a beast of burden or of 
i dog. She was a Hotspur as thoroughly as was he. 
Ind then they brought men there to her, selected 
niters, whom she despised. What did they think of her 
irhen imagining that she would take a husband not of 
ter own choosing? What must be their idea of love, 
nd of marriage duty, and of that close Irvtexccyss.^^^ ^1 



man and wife? To her, feeling a woman should not 
marry at all unless she could so love a man as to 
acknowledge to herself that she was imperatively re- 
quired to sacrifice all that belonged to her for his wel- 
fare and good. Such was her love for George Hotspur, 
— let him be what he might. They told her that he 
was bad and that he would drag her into the mud. 
She was willing to be dragged into the mud; or, at 
any rate, to make her own struggle during the dragging, 
as to whether he should drag her in, or she should 
drag him out. 

And then they brought men to her — walking-sticks, 
— Lord Alfred and yoimg Mr. Thoresby, and insulted 
her by supposing of her that she would marry a man 
simply because he was brought there as a fitting hus- 
band. She would be dutiful and obedient as a daugh- 
ter, according to her idea of duty and of principle; 
but she would let them know that she had an ideotitjr 
of her own, and that she was not to be moulded like 
a piece of clay. 

No doubt she was hard upon her father. No doubt 
she was in very truth disobedient and disrespectful. It 
was not that she should have married any Lord Alfred 
that was brought to her, but that she should have 
struggled to accommodate her spirit to her frUher's 
spirit. But she was a Hotspur; and though she could be 
generous, she could not yield. And then the hold of 
a child upon the father is so mucYx B^xoxk^sei than that 


of the father on the child! ^r eyes are set in our 
fdCOf and are always turned forward. The glances that 
we cast back are but occasional. 

And so the sunshine was banished from the house 
of Humblethwaite, and the days were as black as the 



"Let us Try." 

Things went on thus at Humblethwaite for three 
weeks, and Sir Harry began to feel that he conl^ 
endure it no longer. He had expected to have hearc 
again from Mr. Boltby, but no letter had come. Mr. 
Boltby had suggested to him something of starving 
out the town, and he had expected to be informed 
before this whether the town were starved out or not 
He had received an indignant and grandiloquent letta 
from his cousin, of which as yet he had taken no no* 
tice. He had taken no notice of the letter, althougb 
it had been written to decline a proposal of very greal 
moment made by himself. He felt that in these cb 
cumstances Mr. Boltby ought to have written to him 
He ought to have been told what was being done. And 
yet he had left Mr. Boltby with a feeling which made 
it distasteful to him to ask further questions from thi 
lawyer on the subject. Altogether his position was on( 
as disagreeable and painful as it well could be. 

But at last, in regard to his own private life witl 
his daughter, he could bear it no longer. The tender 
ness of his heart was too much for his pride, and h 
broke down in his resolution to be stem and silen 


inih her till all this should hairt passed by them. She 
"Was so much more to him than he was to her! She 
"Was his all in all; — whereas Cousin George was hers. 
He was the happier at any rate in this , that he would 
aever be forced to despise where he loved. 

"Emily," he said to her at last, "why is it that you 
are so changed to me?" 


"Are you not changed? Do you not know that 
everything about the house is changed?" 

"Yes, Papa." 

"And why is it so? I do not keep away from you. 
"You used to come to me every day. You never come 
near me now." 

She hesitated for a moment with her eyes turned 
to the ground, and then as she answered him she 
^ked him full in the face. "It is because I am al- 
ways thinking of my cousin George." 

"But why should that keep us apart, Emily? I wish 
that it were not so ; but why should that keep us apart? " 

"Because you are thinking of him too, and think 
so differently! You hate him; but I love him." 

^^I do not hate him. It is not that I hate him. I 
hate his vices." 

" So do I." 

"I know that he is not a fit man for you to marry. 
I have not been able to tell you the things that I 
know of him." 


""I do not wish to i|p told." 

"But you might believe me when I assure you that 
they are of a nature to make you change your feelings 
towards him. At this veiy moment he is attached 
to — to — another person/' 

Emily Hotspur blushed up to her brows, and her 
cheeks and forehead were sufiiised with blood; but 
her mouth was set as firm as a rock, and then came 
that curl over her eye which her father had so dearly 
loved when she was a child, but which was now held 
by him to be so dangerous'. She was not going to be 
talked out of her love in that way. Of course there 
had been things, — were things of which she knew 
nothing and desired to know nothing. Though she 
herself was as pure as the driven snow, she did not 
require to be told that there were impurities in the 
world. If it was meant to be insinuated that he was 
untrue to her, she simply disbelieved it. But what if 
he were? His untruth would not justify hers. And 
untruth was impossible to her. She loved him, and 
had told him so. Let him be ever so fialse, it was for 
her to bring him back to truth or to spend herself in 
the endeavour. Her father did not understand her at ^ 
all when he talked to her after this fashion. But she 
said nothing. Her father was alluding to a matter on 
which she could say nothing. 

**If I could explain to you the way in which he has ' 


raised money for his daily nee<^, you would feel that 
lie had degraded himself beneath your notice." 

"He cannot degrade himself beneath my notice; — 
not now. It is too late." 

"But, Emily,— do you mean to say then that, .let 
you set your affections where you might, — however 
wrongly, on however base a subject, — your mamma 
and I ought to yield to them, merely because they are 
so set?'' 

"He is your heir, Papa." 

"No; you are my heir. But I will not argue upon 
that. Grant that he were my heir; even though every 
acre that is mine must go to feed his wickedness the 
very moment that I die, would that be a reason for 
giving my child to him also? Do you think that you 
are no more to me than the acres, or the house, or the 
empty title? They are all nothing to my love for you." 


^^I do not think that you have known it. Nay, 
darling, I have hardly known it myself. All other 
anxieties have ceased with me now that I have come 
to know what it really is to be anxious for you. Do 
yovL think that I would not abandon any consideration 
as to wealth or family for your happiness? It has 
come to that with me, Emily, that they are nothing to 
ma now; — nothing. You are everything." 

"Dear Papa!" And now once again she leant ui^otx 
1119 sboalder. 


** Wlien I tell you ot the young man's life, you will 
not listen to me. You regard it simply as groundless 

"No, Papa; not groundless, — only useless." 

"But am I not bound to see that my girl be not 
united to a man who would disgrace her, misuse her, 
drag her into the dirt," — ^that idea of dragging George 
out was strong in Emily's mind as she listened to 
this, — "make her wretched and contemptible, and 
degrade her? Surely this is a father's duty; and my 
child should not turn from me, and almost refuse to 
speak to me, because I do it as best I can!" 

"I do not turn from you. Papa." 

"Has my darling been to me as she used to be?" 

"Look here, Papa; you know what it is I have 
promised you." 

"I do, dearest." 

"I will keep my promise. I will never marry him 
till you consent. Even though I were to see him eveij 
day for ten years, I would not do so when I had given 
my word." 

"I am sure of it, Emily." 

"But let us try, you and I and Mamma together. 
If you will do that; oh, I will be so good to youl ^ 
Let us see if we cannot make him good. I will never 
ask to marry him till you yourself are satisfied that 
he has reformed." She looked into his face implor- 
ingly, and she saw that he was vacillating. And yet , 


was a strong man, not given in ordinary things to 
ich doubt, ''Papa, let us understand each other 
d be friends. If we do not trust each other, who 
Q trust any one?" 

"I do trust you." 

"I shall never care for any one else." 

"Do not say that, my child. You are too young 

know your own heart. These are wounds which 
ne will cure. Others have suifered as you are 
iflfering, and yet have become happy wives and 

''Papa, I shall never change. I think I love him 
ore because he is — so weak. Like a poor child that ^ 
a cripple, he wants more love than those who are 
rong. I shall never change. And look here. Papa; 
know it is my duty to obey you by not marrying 
ithout your consent. But it can never be my duty 

marry any one because you or Mamma ask me. 
dVL will agree to that, Papa?" 

"I should never think of pressing any one on 


"That is what I mean. And so we do understand 

ch other. Nothing can teach me not to think of 

n, and to love him, and to pray for him. As long 

I live I shall do so. Nothing you can find out 

3Ut him will alter me in that. Pray, pray do not 

on finding out bad things. Find out something 
3d, and then you will begin to love him." 


"But if there is nothing good?" Sir Harry, as he 
said this, remembered the indignant refusal of hk 
offer which was at that moment in his pocket, and 
confessed to himself that he had no right to saj that 
nothing good could be found in Cousin George. 

"Do not say that, Papa. How can you say that 
of any one? Remember, he has our name, and he 
must some day be at the head of our family." 

"It will not be long, first," said Sir Harry, mourn- 

"Many, many, many years, I hope. For his sake 
as well as ours, I pray that it may be so. But still it 
is natural to suppose that the day will come," 

"Of course it will come." 

"Must it not be right, then, to make him fit for it 
when it comes? It can't be your great duty to think 
of him, as it is mine; but still it must be a duty to 
you too. I will not excuse his life. Papa; but hare | 
there not been temptations, — such great temptations? 
And then, other men are excused for doing what he 
has done. Let us try together. Papa. Say that yon 
will try." 

It was clear to Sir Harry through it all that she^' 
knew nothing as yet of the nature of the man's I 
oifences. When she spoke of temptation not resisted, 
she was still thinking of commonplace extravagance, 
of the ordinary pleasures of fest young men, of 


courses, and betting, perhaps, and of tailors' bills. 
That lie which he had told about Goodwood she had, 
as it were, thrown behind her, so th^ she should not 
be forced to look at it. But Sir Harry knew him to 
be steeped in dirty lies up to the hip, one who cheated 
tradesmen on system, a gambler who looked out for 
victims, a creature so mean that he could take a 
woman's money I Mr. Boltby had called him a swindler, 
a card-sharper, and a cur; and Sir Harry, though he 
was inclined at the present moment to be angiy with 
Mr. Boltby, had never known the lawyer to be wrong. 
And this was the man for whom his daughter was 
pleading with all the young enthusiasm of her nature, 
— was pleading, not as for a cousin , but in order that 
he might at last be welcomed to that house as her 
lover, her husband, the one human being chosen out 
from all the world to be the recipient of the good 
things of which she had the bestowal I The man was 
so foul in the estimation of Sir Harry that it was a 
stain to be in his presence; and this was the man 
whom he as a father was implored to help to save, 
in order that at some future time his daughter might 
become the reprobate's wife I 

**Papa, say that you will help me," repeated Emily, 
clinging to him, and looking up into his face. 

He could not say that he would help her, and 
jet he longed to say some word that might comfoct 


her. "You have been greatly shaken by all this, 


''Shaken I Yes, in one sense I have been shaken. 
I don't know quite what you mean. I shall never be 
shaken in the other way." 

"You have been distressed." 

"Yes; distressed." 

"And, indeed, so have we all," he continaed. "I 
think it will be best to leave this for a while." 

"For how long. Papa?" 

"We need not quite fix that. I was thinking of 
going to Naples for the winter." He was silent, wait- 
ing for her approbation, but she expressed none. "It 
is not long since you said how much you would like 
to spend a winter in Naples." 

She still paused, but it was but for a moment. 
"At that time. Papa, I was not engaged." Did she 
mean to tell him, that because of this fatal promise 
which she had made, she never meant to stir from her 
home till she should be allowed to go with that wretch 
as her husband; that because of this promise, which 
could never be fulfilled, everything should come to an 
end with her? "Papa," she said, "that would not be 
the way to try to save him, to go away and leave him 
among those who prey upon him; — unless, indeed, he 
might go tool" 


"What I with us?" 

"With you and Mamma. Why not? You know 
uriiat I have promised. You can trust me." 

"It is a thing absolutely not to be thought of/' he 
said; and then he left her. What was he to do? He 
could take her abroad, no doubt, but were he to do so 
in her present humour, she would, of course, relapse 
into that cold, silent, unloving, undutiful obedience 
which had been so distressing to him. She had made 
a great request to him, and he had not absolutely 
refused it. But the more he thought of it the more 
distasteful did it become to him. You cannot touch 
pitch and not be defiled. And the stain of this pitch 
was so very black I He could pay money, if that would 
soothe her. He could pay money, even if the man 
should not accept the offer made to him, should she 
demand it of him. And if the man would reform him- 
self, and come out through the fire really purified, 
might it not be possible that at some long future time 
Emily should become his wife? Or, if some sort of 
half promise such as this were made to Emily, would 
not that soften her for the time, and induce her to go 
abroad with a spirit capable of satisfaction, if not of 
\ pleasure? If this could be brought about, then time 
might do the rest. It would have been a delight to 
him to see his daughter married early, even though 
y\ lus own home might have been made desolate; but 
W)w he would be content if he thought he could look. 




forward to some future settlement in Rfe that might 
become her rank and fortune. 

Emily, when her father left her, was aware that she 
had received no reply to her request, which she was 
entitled to regard as encouraging; but she thought that 
she had broken the ice, and that her father would by 
degrees become accustomed to her plan. If she could 
only get him to say that he would watch over the un- 
happy one, she herself would not be unhappy. It was 
not to be expected that she should be allowed to give 
her own aid at first to the work, but she had her 
scheme. His debts must be paid, and an income 
provided for him. And duties, too, must be given to 
him. Why should he not live at Scarrowby, and 
manage the property there? And then, at length, he 
would be welcomed to Humblethwaite, when her own 
work might begin. Neither for him nor for her must 
there be any living again in London until this task 
should have been completed. That any trouble could 
be too great, any outlay of money too vast for so 
divine a purpose, did not occur to her. Was not this 
man the heir to her father's title; and was he not the 
owner of her own heart? Then she knelt down and 
prayed that the Almighty Father would accomplish this 
good work for her; — and yet, not for her, but for him; 
not that she might be happy in her love, but that he 
might be as a brand saved from the burning, not only 
hereafter, but here also, in Wie ^v^^iV. o( men. Alas, 


dearest, no; not so could it be done! Not at thy in- 
stance, though thy prayers be as pure as the songs of 
angels; — but certainly at his, if only he could be taught 
to know that the treasure so desirable in thy sight, so 
inestimable to thee, were a boon worthy of his ac- 



Good Advice. 

Two or three days after the little request made bj 
Cousin George to Mrs. Morton, the Altringhams came 
suddenly to town. George received a note from Lady 
Altringham addressed to him at his club. 

"We are going through to the Draytons in Hamp- 
shire. It is a new freak. Four or five horses are to 
be sold, and Gustavus thinks of buying the lot. If 
you are in town, come to us. You must not think 
that we are slack about you because Gustavus would 
have nothing to do with the money. He will be at 
home to-morrow till eleven. I shall not go out till 
two. We leave on Thursday. — Yours, A. A.*' 

This letter he received on the Wednesday. Up to 
that hour he had done nothing since his interview 
with Mr. Hart; nor during those few days did he hear 
from that gentleman, or from Captain Stubber, or from 
Mr. Boltby. He had written to Sir Harry refusing Sir 
Harry's generous offer, and subsequently to that had 
made up his mind to accept it, — and had asked, as 
the reader knows, for Mrs. Morton's assistance. But 
thu Wcildng up of George Hotspur's mind was nothing. 
// ff*Ly unmade again that day ^xllei ^tai^at^ ^& \sa^ 


thought of all the glories of Humblethwaite and Scar- 
rowby combined. Any one knowing him would have 
been sure that he would do nothing till he should be 
further driven. Now there had come upon the scene 
in London one who could drive him. 

He went to the Earl's house just at eleven, not 
wishing to seem to avoid the Earl, but still desirous 
of seeing as little of his friend on that occasion as 
possible. He found Lord Altringham standing in his 
wife's morning-room. "How are you, old fellow? How 
do things go with the heiress?" He was in excellent 
humour, and said nothing about the refused request. 
"I must be off. You do what my Lady advises; you 
may be sure that she knows a deal more about it than 
you or I." Then he went, wishing George success in 
his usual friendly, genial way, which, as George knew, 
meant very little. 

With Lady Altringham the case was different. She 
was in earnest about it. It was to her a matter of 
real moment that this great heiress should marry one 
of her own set, and a man who wanted money so 
badly as did poor George. And she liked work of 
that kind. Greorge's matrimonial prospects were more 
interesting to her than her husband's stables. She was 
vecy soon in the thick of it all, asking questions, and 
finding out how the land lay. She knew that George 
would lie; but that was to be expected from a. tSL^xs. \sw 


his position. She knew also that she coold with foir 
accuracy extract the truth from his lies. 

''Pay all your debts, and give you five hundred 
pounds a year for his life." 

"The lawyer has offered that," said George, sadly. 

"Then you may be sure," continued Lady Altring- 
ham, "that the young lady is in earnest. You have 
not accepted it?" 

"Oh dear, no. I wrote to Sir Harry quite angrily. 
I told him I wanted my cousin's hand." 

"And what next?" 

"I have heard nothing further from anybody." 

Lady Altringham sat and thought. "Are these 
people in London bothering you?" George explained 
that he had been bothered a good deal, but not for 
the last four or five days. " Can they put you in prison, 
or anything of that kind?" 

George was not quite sure whether they might or 
might not have some such power. He had a dreadful 
weight on his mind of which he could say nothing to 
Lady Altringham. Even she would be repelled from 
him were she to know of that evening's work between 
him and Messrs. Walker and Bullbean. He said at 
last that he did not think they could arrest him, bat 
that he was not quite sure. 

"You must do something to let her know that joa 
are as much in earnest as she is." 

'Exactly. " 



''It is no use writing, because she wouldn't get 
iir letters," 

"She wouldn't have a chance." 

"And if I understand her she would not do any- 
ng secretly." 

"I am afraid not/' said George. 

"You will live, perhaps, to be glad that it is so. 
iien girls come out to meet their lovers clandestinely 
Tore marriage, they get so fond of the excitement 
it they sometimes go on doing it afterwards." 

"She is as, — as — ^as sure to go the right side of 
i post as any girl in the world." 

"No doubt. So much the better for you. When 
)se girls do catch the disease, they always have it 
y badly. They mean only to have one affair, and 
turally want to make the most of it. Well, now 
lat I would do is this. Run down to Humble- 

"To Humblethwaite!" 

"Yes. I don't suppose you are going to be afraid 
anybody. Knock at the door, and send your card 
Sir Harry. Drive into the stable-yard, so that every- 
dy about the place may know that you are there, 
d then ask to see the Baronet." 

"He wouldn't see me." 

"Then ask to see Lady Elizabeth." 

"She wouldn't be allowed to see me." 

"Then leave a letter, and say thai ^oxx'^X ni^ V<;st 


an answer. Write to Miss Hotspur whatever you like 
to say in the way of a love-letter, and put it under 
cover to Sir Harry — open." 

" She'll never get it." 

"I don't suppose she will. Not but what she may 
— only that isn't the first object. But this will come 
of it. She'll know that you've been there. That 
can't be kept from her. You may be* sure that she 
was very firm in sticking to you when he offered to 
pay all that money to get rid of you. She'll remain 
firm if she's made to know that you are the same. 
Don't let her love die out for want of notice." 

"I won't." 

"If they take her abroad, go after them. Stick to 
it, and you'll wear them out if she helps you. And if 
she knows that you are sticking to it, she'll do the 
same for honour. When she begins to be a little 
pale, and to walk out at nights, and to cough in the 
morning, they'll be tired out and send for Dr. Greorge 
Hotspur. That's the way it will go if you play your 
game well." 

Cousin George was lost in admiration at the wis- 
dom and generalship of this great counsellor, and 
promised implicit obedience. The Countess went on 
to explain that it might be expedient to postpone this 
movement for a week or two. "You should leave 
just a liale. interval, becaws^ ^^ovsi cax^x^oN. -^^^wjs be 
doing something. For some da:^^ ^'^^^ ^v^ \^N»w:io.\i 


father yrop^t cease to abuse you, which will keep you 
well in her mind. When those men begin to attack 
you again »' so as to make London too hot, then run 
down to Humblethwaite. Don't hide your light under 
a bushel. Let the people down there know all 
about it." 

Greorge Hotspur swore eternal gratitude and im- 
plicit obedience, and went back to his club. 

Mr. Hart and Captain Stubber did not give him 
much rest. From Mr. Boltby he received no further 
communication. For the present Mr. Boltby thought 
it well to leave him in the hands of Mr. Hart and 
Captain Stubby. Mr. Boltby, indeed, did not as yet 
know of Mr. Bullbean's story, although certain hints 
had reached him which had, as he thought, justified 
him in adding the title of card«sharper to those other 
titles with which he had decorated his client's cousin's 
name. Had he known the entire Walker story, he 
would probably have thought that Cousin George 
might have been bought at a considerably cheaper 
price than that fixed in the Baronefs o£fer, which was 
still in force. But then Mr. Hart had his little doubts 
also and his difficulties. He, too, could perceive that 
were he to make this last little work of Captain 
Hotspur's common property in the market, it might 
so fan sink Captain Hotspur's condition and value in 
the world that nobody would think it worth bi& mhill& 
to pajr Captain Hotspmr's debts. Kt "^xe&^XiX ^^cifis^ 


was a propositibn from an dd gentiemaiii 
of enormous wealth, to ''pay all Captain Hotspur's 
debts." Three months ago, Mr. Hart would willingij 
have sold every scrap of the Captain's paper in his 
possession for the half of the sum inscribed cm it 
The whole sum was now promised, and wovld un* 
doubtedly be paid if the Captain could be worked 
upon to do as Mr. Boltby desired. But if the geaOtF^ 
men employed on this delicate business were to blow 
upon the Captain too severely, Mr« Boltby would have 
no such absolute necessity to purdbase the Captain. 
The Captain would sink to zero, and not need 
purchasing. Mr. Walker must have back Us money, 
— or so much of it as Mr. Hart might permit him to 
take. That probably mi^t be managed; aad the 
Captain must be thoroughly frightened, aad must be 
made to write the letter which Mr. Boltby desired. 
Mr. Hart understood his work very well; — so, it is 
hoped, does the reader. 

Captain Stubber was in these days a thoon in ov 
hero's side; but Mr. Hart was a scourge of scorpions. 
Mr. Hart never ceased to talk of Mr. Walkar, and of 
the determination of Walker and BuHbean to go before 
a magistrate if restitution were not made. Cousin 
Greorge of course denied the foul play, but admitted 
that he would r^ay the money if he had it. There 
should be no difficulty about the money, Mr. Hart 
assured bim, if he would onVy wi^ >X^>R9di»t \o Mr. 

(ft HtrHBLETHWAITE. "|9 

Boltby. In fact, if he would write that letter to Mi. 
Boltby, he should be made "shquare all ronnd." So 
2b. Hart was pleased to express himself. But if this 
were oot done, and done at once, Mr. Hart swore by 
his God that Captain '"OBhspui" should be sold up, 
root and branch, without another day's mercy. The 
choice was between five hundred pounds a year in 
eny of the capitals of Europe, and that without a 
debt, — or penal servitude. That was the pleasant 
which Mi. Hart put the matter to his young 

Cousin George drank a good deal of cuiacoa, and 
t doubted between Lady Altringham and Mr. Hart. 
He knew that be had not told everything to the 
Countess. Excellent as was hex scheme, perfect as 
was her wisdom, her advice was so far more dangerous 
I than the Jew's, that it was given somewhat in the 
dark. The Jew knew pretty well everything. The 
Jew was interested, of course, and therefore his adrice 
most also be regarded with suspicion. At last, when 
Mr. Hart and Captain Stubber between them had 
made London too hot to hold him, he started for 
tfumbleihwaite, — not without leaving a note for "dear 
Mr, Hart," in which he explained to that gentleman 
I that he was going to Westmoreland suddenly, with a 
poipose that would, he trusted, very speedily enable 
to pay everj' flhijiing that he o-wtd. 



"Yesh," said Mr. Hart, "and if he ain't quick he 
shall come back with a 'andcuff on." 

Captain Hotspur could not very well escape Mr. 
Hart. He started by the night*train for Penrith , and 
before doing so prepared a short letter for Miss 
Hotspur, which, as instructed, he put open under an 
envelope addressed to the Baronet. There should be 
nothing clandestine, nothing dishonourable. Oh dear, 
no I He quite taught himself to believe that he would 
have hated anything dishonourable or clandestine. 
His letter was a3 follows: — 

''Dearsst Emilt, — ^After what has passed between 
us, I cannot bear not to attempt to see you or to 
write to you. So I shall go down and take this letter 
with me. Of course I shall not take any steps of 
which Sir Harry might disapprove. I wrote to him 
two or three weeks ago, telling him what I propoeed, 
and I thought that he would have answered me. As 
I have not heard from him I shall take this with me 
to Humblethwaite, and shall hope, though I do not 
know whether I may dare to expect, to see the girl I 
love better than all the world. — ^Alwajrs your own, 

"George Hotspur.*' 

Even this was not composed by himself^ for Cousin 

George, though he could often talk well,— or at least 

sufSciently well for the purpoaeia 'wY^kSEi bn bad on 


hand, — ^was not good with his pen on such an occasion 
as this. Lady Altringiiam had sent him by post a 
rough copy of what he had better say, and he had 
copied her ladyship's words verbatim. There is no 
matter of doubt at all but that on all such subjects an 
average woman can write a better letter than an ^ 
average man; and Cousin George was therefore right 
to obtain assistance from his female friends. 

He slept at Penrith till nearly noon, then break- 
fasted and started with post*horses for Humblethwaite. 
He felt that everybody knew what he was about, and 
was almost ashamed of being seen. Nevertheless he 
obeyed his instructions. He had himself driven up 
through the lodges and across the park into the large 
stable-yard of the Hall. Lady Altringham had quite 
understood that more people must see and hear him 
in this way than if fie merely rang at the front door 
and were from thence dismissed. The grooms and 
the coachman saw him, as did also three or four of 
the maids who were in the habit of watching to see 
that the grooms and coachman did their work. He 
had brought with him a travelling-bag, — Hot expecting 
to be asked to stay and dine, but thinking it well to 
be prepared. This, however, he left in the fly as he 
walked round to the hall-door. The footman was 
already there when he appeared, as word had gone 
through the house that Mr. George had arrived. Was 
Sir Haxiy at home} Yes, Sir Harry 'V^ ^XYkOTafe^s — 


and then George fonnd himself in a small parlour, or 
book-room, or subsidiary librBrjr, which he had veij 
rarely known to be used. But there was a fire in tiie 
room, and he stood before it, twiddling his hat. 

In a quarter of an hour the door was opened, and 
the servant came in with a tray and wine and sand- 
wiches. George felt it to be an inappropriate wel- 
come; but still, after a ^hion, it was a welcome. 

''Is Sir Harry in the house?'' he asked. 

"Yes, Mr. Hotspur." 

"Does he know that I am here?" 

"Yes, Mr. Hotspur, I think he does." 

Then it occurred to Cousin George that perfai^ 
he might bribe the servant; and he put his hand into 
his pocket But before he had conmiunicated the two 
half-crowns, it struck him that there was no possible 
request which he could make to the man in reference 
to which a bribe would be serviceable. 

"Just ask them to look to the horses/' he said; 
"I don't know whether they were taken out." 

"The horses is feeding, Mr. Hotspur,'* said the 

Every word the man spoke was gravely ^oken, 
and George understood perfectly that he was held to 
have done a very wicked thing in coming to Humble- 
thwaite. Nevertheless, there was a decanter fiill of 
sherry, which, as far as it went, was an emblem of 
kindness. Nobody should say that he was unwilling 

OF HUlfBLETHWAirE. 23 1 

to accept kindness at his cousin's hands], and he 
helped himself liberallj. Before he was Interrupted 
again he had filled his glass four times. 

But in truth it needed something to support him. 
For a whole hour after the servant's disappearance he 
was left alone. There were books in the room, — 
hundreds of them; but in sodi €ircamstances who 
ootid read? Certainly not Cousin Geoxge, to whom 
books at no time gave modi comfort. Twice and 
thrice he stopped towards the bell, intending to ling 
it, and ask again fbr Sir Harry; but twice and thrice 
he paused. In his position he was bound not to give 
o£fence to Sir Hany. At last the door was opened, 
and with silent step, and grave demeanour, and 
solenua countenance, Lady Elizabeth walked into 
the room, ''We are very sorry that you should 
hatre been k^ so k>ng waiting, Captain Hotspur,'* 
she said. 


The new Smithy. 

Sir Harrt was sitting alone in the library when 
the tidings were brought to him that George Hot^m 
had reached Hiimblethwaite with a pair of po^-horses 
from Penrith. The old butler, Cloudesdale, broughl 
him the news, and Cloudesdale whispered it into hii 
ears with solemn sorrow. Cloudesdale was well aware 
that Cousin George was no credit to the house ol 
Humblethwaite. And much about the same time the 
information was brought to Lady Elizabeth by hei 
housekeeper, and to Emily by her own maid. It was 
by Cloudesdale's orders that George was shown into 
the small room near the hall; and he told Sir Hany 
what he had done, in a funereal whisper. Lad^ 
Altringham had been quite right in her method oi 
ensuring the general delivery of the information about 
the house. 

Emily flew at once to her mother. "George is 
here/' she said. Mrs. Quick, the housekeeper, was at 
that moment leaving the room. 

''So Quick tells me. What can have brought him, 
my dear?" 

Why should he not come, lAasoKaJi'* 



"Because your papa will not make him welcome 
to the house. Oh, dear, — he knows that. What are 
we to do?" In a few minutes Mrs. Quick came back 
again. Sir Harry would be much obliged if her lady- 
ship would go to him. Then it was that the sand- 
wiches and sherry were ordered. It was a compro- 
mise on the part of Lady Elizabeth between Emily's 
prayer that some welcome might be shown, and Sir 
Harxys presumed determination that the banished 
man should continue to be regarded as banished. 
"Take him some kind of refreshment, Quick; — a glass 
of wine or something, you know." Then Mrs. Quick 
had cut the sandwiches with her own hand, and 
Cloudesdale had given the sherry. "He ain't eaten 
much, but he's made it up with the wine," said Cloudes- 
dale, when the tray was brought back again. 

Lady Elizabeth went down to her husband, and 
there was a consultation. Sir Harry was quite clear 
that he would not now, on this day, admit Cousin 
George as a guest into his house; nor would he see 
him. To that conclusion he came after his wife had 
been with him some time. He would not see him, 
there, at Humblethwaite. If George had anything to 
say that could not be said in a letter, a meeting might 
be arranged elsewhere. Sir Harry confessed, however, 
that he could not see that good results could come 
from any meeting whatsoever. **The truth is, that I 
don't want to have anything more to do Vy^Vvss^.; 


said Sir Harry. That was all vecy well, but aj3 Smily^ 
wants in this respect were at variance with her fiaither'a, 
there was a difficulty. Lady Elizabeth pleaded thai 
some kind of civility , at least some mitigation of op 
position y should be shown, for Endly^s sake. At last 
she was commissioned to go to Cousin George, tc 
send him away from the house, and, if necessary, tc 
make an appointment between him and Sir Hany al 
the Crown, at Penrith, for the moirow. Nothing on 
earth should induce Sir Hany to see his cousin a&j- 
where on his own premises. As for any meeting be- 
tween Cousin George and Emily, that was, of course, 
out of the question, — ^and he must go firom Ham- 
blethwaite. Such were the instructions wH&l which 
Lady Elizabeth descended to the little room. 

Cousin George came forward with the pleasantesi 
smile to take Lady Elizabeth by the hand. He wa^ 
considerably relieved when he saw Lady Elizabeth 
because of her he was not afraid. ''I do not at al 
mind waiting," he said. '<How is Sir Hany?'' 

"Quite well." 

"And yourself?" 

"Pretty well, thank you." 

"And Emily?" 

Lady Elizabeth knew that in answering iiim fAt 
ought to call her own daughter Miss Hot^xur, but ah 
lacked the courage. "Emily is well too. Sir Han 
has thought it best that I should come to. ycm an 


expfcun that just at present he cannot ask you to 

"I dfd not expect it." 

"And he had rather not see you himself, — at least 
not here.*' Lady Elizabeth had not been instructed 
to propose a meeting. She had been told rather to 
avoid it if possible. But, like some other undiplo- 
matic ambassadors, in her desire to be civil, she ran 
at once to the extremity of the permitted concessions. 
"If you have anything to say to Sir Harry *' 

"I have, Lady Elizabeth; a great deal." 

-And if you could write it " 

"I am so bad at writing." 

*'Then Sir Harry will go over and see you to-mor- 
row at Penrith." 

"That will be so very troublesome to him!" 

''Yoa need not regard that. At what hour shall 
he come?** 

Cousin Greorge was profuse in declaring that he 
would be at his cousin's disposal at any hour Sir 
Harry might select, from six in the morning through- 
out the day and night. But might he not say a word 
to Emily? At this proposition Lady Elizabeth shook 
her head vigorously. It was quite out of the ques- 
tion. Circumstanced as they all were at present. Sir 
Harry would not think of such a thing. And then it 
would do no good. Lady Elizabeth did ivot be.\i&M^ 
/&8f JEmiljr herself would wish it. M aiv^ t^\.^ ^^x^ 



need be no further talk about it, as any such i 
view was at present quite impossible. By all v 
arguments and refusals, and the tone in which 
were pronounced, Cousin George was taught to 
ceive that, at any rate in the mind of Lady i 
beth, the process of parental yielding had air 

On all such occasions interviews are bad. 
teller of this story ventures to take the opportunii 
recommending parents in such cases always to n 
interviews, not only between the young lady anc 
lover who is to be excluded, but also between ti 
selves and the lover. The vacillating tone, — 
when the resolve to suppress vacillation has been 
determined, — is perceived and understood, and at 
utilized, by the least argumentative of lovers, eve 
lovers who are obtuse. The word "never" may I 
pronounced as to make the young lady's twenty 1 
sand pounds full present value for ten in the lo 
pocket. There should be no arguments, no letter 
interviews; and the young lady's love should be st< 
by the absence of all other mention of the name, 
by the imperturbable good humour on all other m: 
of those with whom she comes in contact in her 
domestic circle. If it be worth anything, it won 
starved; but if starving to death be possible, H 
the way to starve it. Lady Elizabeth was a bac 
bassador; and Cousin George, when he took his 1 


romising to be ready to meet Sir Harry at twelve on 
le morrow, could almost comfort himself with a pro- 
pect of success. He might be successful, if only he 
ould stave off the Walker and Bullbean portion of Mr. 
lart's persecution! For he understood that the suc- 
»ss of his views at Humblethwaite must postpone the 
>a3anent by Sir Harry of those moneys for which Mr. 
lart and Captain Stubber were so unreasonably greedy. 
le would have dared to defy the greed, but for the 
Valker and Bullbean portion of the affair. Sir Harry 
iready knew that he was in debt to these menu alr- 
eady knew with fair accuracy the amount of those 
lebts. Hart and Stubber could not make him worse 
n Sir Harry's eyes than he was already, unless the 
talker and Bullbean story should be told with the 
purpose of destroying him. How he did hate Walker 
md Bullbean and the memory of that evening; — and 
^et the money which now enabled him to drink 
champagne at the Penrith Crown was poor Mr. 
Walker's money! As he was driven back to Penrith 
he thought of all this, for some moments sadly, and 
at others almost with triumph. Might not a letter to 
Mr. Hart, with perhaps a word of truth in it, do some 
g^d? That evening, after his champagne, he wrote a 
letter: — 

"Dear Mr. Hart, — Things are going uncommon 
vrell here, only I hope you will do nothing to di%^xs.V^ 


Just at present It muii come off, if a little time i$ 
given, and then every shilling will be paid. A few 
pounds more or less won't make any diflference. Do 
arrange this, and jrou'll find 111 never forget how kud 
you have been. I've been at Humblethwaite to-daj, 
and things are going quite smooth. 

''Yours most sincerely, 

''GsoRGB Hotspur* 

''Don't mention Walker's name, and eveiTtfalDg 
shall be settled just as you shall fix. 
"The Crown, Penrith, Thursday." 

The moment the letter was written he rang the 
bell and gave it to the waiter. Such was the valour 
of drink operating on him now, as it had done when 
he wrote that other letter to Sir Harry I The drink 
made him brave to write, and to make attempts, and 
to dare consequences; but even whilst brave with 
drink, he knew that the morning's prudence would 
refuse its assent to such courage; and therefore, to 
save himself from the efiects of the morning's coward- 
ice, he put the letter at once out of his own powei 
of control. After this fashion were arranged most of 
Cousin George's a£fairs. Before dinner on that day 
the evening of which he had passed with Mr. Walker, 
he had resolved that certain hints given to him by 
Mr. Bullbean should be of no avail to him; — not to 
that had he yet descended, nor would he so descend; 


—-bat with his brandy after dinner divine courage had 
come, and success had attended the brave. As soon 
as he was awake on that morning after writing to Mr. 
Harty he rang his bell to inquire whether that letter 
which he had given to the waiter at twelve o'clock last 
night were still in the house. It was too late. The 
letter in which so imprudent a mention had been made 
of Mr. Walker's name was already in the post ''Never 
mind/' said Cousin George to himself; ''None but the 
brave deserve the fair." Then he turned round for 
another nap. It was not much past nine, and Sir 
Harry would not be there before twelve. 

In the mean time there had been hope also and 
doubt also at Humblethwaite. Sir Harry was not 
surprised and hardly disappointed when he was told 
that he was to go to Penrith to see his cousin. The 
offer had been made by himself, and he was sure that 
he would not escape with less; and when Emily was 
told by her mother of the arrangement, she saw in it 
a way to the fulfilment of the prayer which she had 
made to her father. She would say nothing to him 
that evening, leaving to him the opportunity of speak- 
ing to her, should he choose to do so. But on the 
following morning she would repeat her prayer. On 
that evening not a word was said about George while 
Sir Harry and Lady Elizabeth were together with their 
dai^hter* Emily had made her plan, and she clung 
to it Her father was very gentle wWql Yiec, ^\\.Mvci% Ow^a^fc 


to her as she played some pieces of music to him in 
the evening, caressing her and looking lovingly into 
her eyes, as he bade Grod bless her when she left him 
for the night; but he had determined to say nothing 
to encourage her. He was still minded that th^e 
could be no such <encouragement; but he doubted; — 
in his heart of hearts he doubted. He would still 
have bought off Cousin George by the sacrifice of half 
his property, and yet he doubted. After all, there 
would be some consolation in that binding together of 
the name and the property. 

''What will you say to him?" Lady Elizabeth asked 
her husband that night. 

"Tell him to go away." 

"Nothing more than that?" 

"What more is there to say? If he be willing to 
be bought, I will buy him. I will pay his debts and 
give him an income." 

"You think, then, there can be no hope?" 

"Hope! — for whom?" 

"For Emily." 

"I hope to preserve her — from a — scoundrel." And 
yet he had thought of the consolation I 

Emily was very persistent in carrying oat her plan. 
Prayers at Humblethwaite were always read widi ad- 
mirable punctuality at a quarter-past nine, so that 
breakfast might be commenced at half-past. Sir Hany 
evetyr week-day was in Ins ONm looxn ^ot ^^Dsnb^^paiters 


of an hour before prayers. All this was like clock- 
work at Humblethwaite. There would always be some 
man or men with Sir Harry diuing these three-quarters 
of an hour, — a tenant, a game-keeper, a groom, a 
gardener, or a bailiff. But Emily calculated that if she 
made her appearance and held her ground, the tenant 

. or the bailiff would give way, and that thus she would 
ensnre a private interview with her father. Were she 
to wait till after breakfast, this would be difficult. A 
very few minutes after the half-hour she knocked at 

i the door and was admitted. The village blacksmith 
was then suggesting a new smithy. 

^ "Papa,** said Emily, "if you would allow me half 

j a minute " 

"The village blacksmith and the bailiff, who was 

^ also present, withdrew, bowing to Emily, who gave 

^ to each of them a smile and a nod. They were her 

' old familiar friends, and they looked kindly at her. 

r She was to be their future lady; but was it not 

^ all important that their future lord should be a 

Sir Harry had thought it not improbable that his 
daughter would come to him, but would have preferred 
to avoid the interview if possible. Here it was, how- 
ever, and could not be avoided. 

* "Papa," she said, kissing him, "you are going to 
Penrith to-day." 

. "Yes, my dear." 


"To see Cousin George?" 

"Yes, Emily." 

"Will you remember what we were saying the 
other day; — what I said?" 

"I will endeavour to do my duty as best I may,'' 
said Sir Harry, after a pause. 

"I am sure you will, Papa; — and so do I. I do 
endeavour to do my duty. Will you not try to bdp 

"Certainly, I will try to help him; for your sake 
rather than for his own. If I can help him with 
money, by paying his debts and giving him means to 
live, I will do so." 

"Papa, that is not what I mean." 

"What else can I do?" 

" Save him from the evil of his ways." 

"I will try. I would, — ^if I knew how,— even if 
only for the name's sake." 

"For my sake also. Papa. Papa, let us do it to- 
gether; you and I and Mamma. Let him come here.'* 

"It is impossible." 

"Let him come here," she said, as though dis- 
regarding his refusal. "You need not be afiraid of 
me. I know how much there is to do that will be ' 
very hard in doing before any, — any other arrangement \ 
can be talked about." ' 

"I am not afraid of you, my child." 

"Let him come, then." 


"No; — it would do no good. Do you think he 
would live here quietly?" 

"Try him." 

"What would people say?" 

"Never mind what people would say: he is our 
cousin; he is your heir. He is the person whom I 
love best in all the world. Have you not a right to 
have him here if you wish it? I know what you are 
thinking of; but, Papa, there can never be anybody 
else; — never." 

"Emily, you will kiU me, I think." 

"Dear Papa, let us see if we cannot try. And, oh, 
Papa, pray, pray let me see him." When she went 
away the bailiff and the blacksmith returned; but Sir 
Harry's power of resistance was gone, so that he suc- 
cumbed to the new smithy without a word. 



Goudn Gtargt^u Suooess. 

Thoughts crowded quick into the mind of Sir 
Harry Hotspur as he had himself driven over to Penri&. 
It was a dull, dreary day in November, and he took 
the close carriage. The distance was about ten miles, 
and he had therefore something above an hour for 
thinking. When men think much, they can rarely 
decide. The affairs as to which a man has once 
acknowledged to himself that he may be either wise 
or foolish, prudent or imprudent, are seldom matters 
on which he can by any amount of thought bring 
himself to a purpose which to his own eyes shall be 
clearly correct. When he can decide without thinking, 
then he can decide without a doubt, and with perfect 
satisfaction. But in this matter Sir Harry thought 
much. There had been various times at which he was 
quite sure that it was his duty to repudiate this cousin 
utterly. There had never been a time at which he 
had been willing to accept him. Nevertheless, at this 
moment, with all his struggles of thought he could 
not resolve. Was his higher duty due to his daughter, 
or to his family, — and through his family to his 
country, which, as he believed, owed its sectirity and 


l^iy to the maintenance of its aristocracy? Would 
ihe be justified, — justified in any degree, — ^in subject- 
ing his child to danger in the hope that his name 
and ^Eimily pride might be maintained? Might he 
take his own desires in that direction as any make- 
weight towards a compliance with his girl's strong 
wishes, grounded as they were on quite other reasons? 
Mr. Boltby had been veiy eager in telling him that he 
ought to have nothing to say to this cousin, had 
loaded the cousin's name with eveiy imaginable evil 
epithet; and of Mr. Boltby's truth and honesty there 
could be no doubt. But then Mr. Boltby had certainly 
exceeded his duty, and was of course disposed, by 
his professional view of the matter, to think any step 
the wisest which would tend to save the property from 
dangerous hands. Sir Harry felt that there were 
things to be saved of more value than the property; 
— the family, the title, perhaps that reprobate cousin 
I himself ; and then, above all, his child. He did believe 
that his child would not smile for him again, unless 
he would consent to make some effort in favour of her 

Doubtless the man was very bad. Sir Harry was 
sick at heart as he thought of the evil nature of the 
young man's vices. Of a man debauched in his life, 
extravagant with his money, even of a gambler, a 
drunkard, one fond of low men and of low women;— 
of one even such as this there img\\l\>^\ioV^> •asi^'^^ 


vicious man, if he will give np his vices, may still be 
loved and at last respected. But of a liar, a swindler, 
one mean as well as vicious, what hope could thcfe 
be? It was essential to Sir Harry that the husband 
of his daughter should at any rate be a gentleman. 
The man's blood, indeed , was good; and blood will 
show at last, let the mud be ever so deep. So said 
Sir Harry to himself. And Emily would consent that 
the man should be tried by what severest fire migfet 
be kindled for the trying of him. If there were any 
gold there, it might be possibleto send the dross 
adrift, and to get the gold without alloy. Could Lad/ 
Altringham have read Sir Harry's mind as his caniage 
was pulled up, just at twelve o'clock, at the door of 
the Penrith Crown, she would have been stronger than 
ever in her belief that young lovers, if they be firm, 
can always conquer opposing parents. 

But alas, alas, there was no gold with this dross, 
and in that matter of blood, as to which Sir Harry's 
ideas were so strong, and indeed so noble, be enter-' 
tained but a muddled theory. Noblesse oblige. High! 
position will demand, and will often exact, high work.' 
But that rule holds as good with a Buonaparte as 
with a Bourbon, with a Cromwell as with a Stewart; 
and succeeds as often and fails as often with the low 
born as with the high. And good blood too will have 
its effect, — physical for the most part, — and will 
produce bottom, lasting courage, that capacity of car- 


jdng on through the mud to which Sir tlarry was 
ront to allude; but good blood will bring no man 
ack to honesty. The two things together, no doubt, 
asist in producing the highest order of self-denying 

When Sir Harry got out of his carriage, he had 
lot yet made up his mind. The waiter had been 
old that he was expected, and showed him up at 
)nce into the l^ge sitting^-xotim looking out into the 
itreety which Cousin George had bespoke for the 
)Ccasion. He had had a smaller room himself, but 
lad been smoking there, and at this moment in that 
room there was a decanter and a wine-glass on the 
:hiffonier in one corner. He had heard the bustle of 
:he arrival, and had at once gone into the saloon 
prepared for the reception of the great man. "I am 
JO sorry to give you this trouble," said Cousin George, 
:oming forward to greet his uncle. 

Sir Harry could not refuse his cousin's hand, though 
le would willingly have done so, had it been possible. 
'I should not mind the trouble," he said, ''if it were 
)f any use. I fear it can be of none." 

''I hope you will not be prejudiced against me, 
5ir Harry." 

^'I trust that I am not prejudiced against any one. 
VbBt is it that you wish me to do?" 

**1 want permission to go to Hu.mblt\k'^^\.^^ ^d& "^ 


suitor for your daughter's hand." So far Cousin Geoi]p] 
had prepared his speech beforehand. 

"And what have you to recommend you to a father 
for such permission? Do you not know, sir, that when r^ 
a gentleman proposes to a lady it is his duty to show 
that he is in a condition fit for the position which he 
seeks; that in character, in means, in rank, in conduct, 
he is at least her equal." 

"As for our rank. Sir Hany, it is the same." 

"And for your means? You know that my daughter 
is my heiress?" 

"I do; but it is not that that has brought me to 
her. Of course, I have nothing. But then, you know, 
though she will inherit the estates, I must inherit " 

"If you please, sir, we will not go into all that 
again," said Sir Harry, interrupting him. "I explained 
to you before, sir, that I would have admitted your 
future rank as a counterpoise to her fortune, if I could 
have trusted your character. I cannot trust it. I do 
not know why you should thrust upon me the necessity 
of saying all this again. As I believe that you are in 
pecuniary distress, I made you an offer which I thought 
to be liberal." 

"It was liberal, but it did not suit me to accept 
it." George had an inkling of what would pass within 
Sir Harry's bosom as to the acceptance or rejection of 
that offer. "I wrote to you, declining it, and as I 


ive received no answer, I thought that I would just 
in down. What was I to do?" 

"Do? How can I tell? Pay your debts. The money 
ras oflFered you." 

"I cannot give up my cousin. Has she been 
illowed to receive the letter which I left for her 

Now Sir Harry had doubted much in his own 
oind as to the letter. During that morning's inter- 
lew it had still been in his own possession. As he 
ras preparing to leave the house he had made up his 
oind that she should have it; and Lady Elizabeth 
lad been commissioned to give it her, not without 
Qstraction and explanation. Her father would not 
;eep it from her, because he trusted her implicitly; 
)ut she was to understand that it could mean nothing 
her, and that the letter must not of course be an- 

"It does not matter whether she did or did not," 
aid Sir Harry. "I ask you again, whether you will 
ccept the oflfer made you by Mr. Boltby, and give me 
our written promise not to renew this suit." 

"I cannot do that. Sir Harry." 

Sir Harry did not know how to proceed with the 
itendew. As he had come there, some proposition 
lust be made by himself. Had he intended to be 
(together obstinate he should have remained at 
[umbletbwaite, and kept his cousin ^iU>^<^>^^\. <:s^ 

250 Sm ttARRY aOTSPUk. 

of the house. And now his daughter's prayers wert' 
ringing in his ears: "Dear Papa, let us see if ^' 
cannot try." And then again that assurance which 
she had made him so solemnly: "Papa, there never 
can be anybody else!" If the black sheep could be 
washed white, the good of such washing would on 
every side be so great! He would have to blush,— 
let the washing be ever so perfect, — ^he must always 
blush in having such a son-in-law; but he had been 
forced to acknowledge to himself of late, that there 
was infinitely more of trouble and shame in this worid 
than of joy or honour. Was it not in itself a disgrace 
that a Hotspur should do such things as this cousin 
had done; and a disgrace also that his daughter shouM 
have loved a man so unfit to be her lover? And then 
from day to day, and from hour to hour, he remembered 
that these ills were added to the death of that son, 
who, had he lived, would have been such a glory to 
him. More of trouble and disgrace! Was it not all 
trouble and disgrace? He would have wished that the 
day might come for him to go away and leave it all, 
were it not that for one placed as he was placed his 
own life would not see the end of these troubles. He 
must endeavour to provide that everything should not 
go to utter ruin as soon as he should have taken hs 

He walked about the room, again trying to think. 
Or^ perhaps, all thinking was over with him now, and 


ras resolving in his own mind how best he might 
n to yield. He must obey his daughter. He 
d not break the heart of the only child that was 
to him. He had no delight in the world other 
I what came to him reflected back from her. He 
now as though he weis simply a steward endeavour- 
on her behalf to manage things to the best ad- 
age; but still only a steward, and as such only a 
ant who could not at last decide on the mode of 
lagement to be adopted. He could endeavour to 
uade, but she must decide. Now his daughter 
decided, and he must begin this task, so utterly 
isteful to him, of endeavouring to wash the black- 
lor white. 

"What are you willing to do?" he asked. 
"How to do. Sir Harry?*' 
"You have led a bad life." 
"I suppose I have, Sir Harry." 
"How will 'you show yourself willing to re- 
i it?" 

"Only pay my debts and set me up with ready 
ley, and Til go along as slick as grease!" Thus 
Id Cousin George have answered the question had 
spoken his mind freely. But he knew that he 
lit not be so explicit. He must promise much; 
of course, in making his promise he must arrange 
it his debts. "I'll do almost anything you like. 
Y try me. Of course it would be eo tdsiOcl ^^^^st 


if those debts were paid oft. Til give up races ate 
gether, if you mean that, Sir Hany. Indeed, V\ 
ready to give up anything." 

"Will you give up London?" 

" London 1" In simple truth, George did not qu 
understand the proposition. 

"Yes; will you leave London? Will you go a 
life at Scarrowby, and learn to look after the fa 
and the place?" 

George's face fell, — his face being less used 
lying than his tongue; but his tongue lied at oni 
"Oh yes, certainly, if you wish it. I should rati 
like a life of that sort. For how long would it be? 

"For two years," said Sir Harry, grimly. 

Cousin George, in truth, did not understand, 
thought that he was to take his bride with him wl 
he went to Scarrowby. "Perhaps Emily would i 
like it," he said. 

"It is what she desires. You do not suppose i 
she knows so little of your past life as to be willing 
trust herself into your hands at once. She is attad 
to you." 

"And so am I to her; on my honour I am* ] 
sure you don't doubt that." 

Sir Harry doubted every word that fell from 
cousin's mouth, but still he persevered. He co 
perceive though he could not analyse, and there y 
hardly a tone which poor Cousin George used wfa 


not discourage the Baronet. Still he persevered, 
a *ie must persevere now, even if it were only to prove 
*^ Emilj how much of basest day and how little of 
43old there was in this image. 

"She is attached to you," he continued, "and you 

^feear our name, and will be the head of our family. 

. ^ you will submit yourself to a reformed life, and will 

3p:ove that you are fit for her, it may be possible that 

^dter years she should be your wife." 

"After years. Sir Harry?" 

"Yes, sir, — ^after years. Do you suppose thafthe 

liappiness of such an one as she can be trusted to 

such keeping as yours without a trial of you? You 

will find that she has no such hope herself.^ 

"Oh, of course; what she likes — 


"I will pay your debts; on condition that Mr. 
Boltby is satisfied that he has the entire list of them." 

George, as he heard this, at once determined that 
he must persuade Mr. Hart to include Mr. Walker's 
little account in that due to himself. It was only a 
matter of a few hundreds, and might surely be ar- 
ranged when so much real money would be passing 
from hand to hand. 

"I will pay everything; you shall then go down 
to Scarrowby, and the house shall be prepared for 

It wasn't supposed, George thow^VA., \5oaX.\Na. ^"^a^ 
gjbaolutely to live in solitary confixvemeiiV ^X. '^jcartcs"'^'^" 

254 ^'^ HARRY HOT8POR 



He might have a friend or two, and then the statioft ^ 
was very near. 

''You are fond of shooting, and yon wHl hove 
plenty of it there. We will get you made a magistrate 
for the county, and there is much to do in looking 
after the property." Sir Hairy hecame almost good- 
humoured in his tone as he described the kind of life ]- 
which he intended that the blackamoor should live. V 
''We will come to you for a month eadi year, and I 
then you can come to us for a while.'' 

*'When shall it begin?'' asked Cousin George, as 
soon as the Baronet paused. This was a question 
difficult to be answered. In fact, the arrangement 
must be commenced at once. Sir Harry knew vtxj 
well that, having so far yielded, he must take his 
cousin back with him to Humblethwaite. He must 
keep his cousin now in his possession till all those 
debts should be paid, and till the house at Scarrowfoy 
should be prepared; and he must trust to his daughter's 
prudence and high sense of right not to treat her 
lover with too tender an acknowledgment of her love 
till he should have been made to pass through the fire 
of reform. 

"You had better get ready and come back to 
Humblethwaite with me now," said Sir Harry. 

Within five minutes after that there was bustling 

about the passages and hall of the Crown Hbtd. 

yEverybody in the house, frcxm li!lDL<& va^SQS*. >asiiSkNd 

t OF humblethwahb. 255 

r down to the humble stableboj, knew that there had 
been a reconciliation between Sir Harry and his cousin, 
. and that the cousin was to be made welcome to all 
' the good the gods could give. While Cousin George 
f was packing his things, Sir Harry called for the bill 
t and paid it, — without looking at it, because he would 
^ not examine how the blackamoor had lived while he 
1 was still a blackamoor. 

ft *'I wonder whether he observed the brandy,** 
thought Cousin George to himself. 



Emily Hotspur's Sermon. 

The greater portion of the journey back to Hu 
thwsute was passed in silence. Sir Harry had u 
taken an experiment in which he had no faith hi] 
and was sad at heart. Cousin George was c< 
half afraid, and yet half triumphant. Could it be 
sible that he should "pull through" after all? 
things had gone so well with him. His lady ft 
had been so true to him! Lady Altringham, and 
Mrs. Morton, — ^how good they had been! Dear ] 
He would never forget her. And Emily was si 
brick! He was going to see his Emily, and 
would be "so jolly." Nevertheless, he did ad 
ledge to himself that an Emily prepared to assis 
father in sending her lover through the fire of re 
would not be altogether "so jolly" as the Emily 
had leanecj against him on the bridge at Airey i 
while his arm had been tightly clasped rounc 
waist. He was alive to the fact that romance 
give place to business. 

When they had enteied \.Vie i^^ik-^ates^ Sir ] 
spoke. " You must understand, O^oi^^" — V^ V^ 



Called him George before since the engagement had 
been made known to him — ''that you cannot yet be 
admitted here as my daughter's accepted suitor, as 
might have been the case had your past life been dif- 

''I see all that/' said Cousin George. 

'^It is right that I should tell you so; but I trust 
implicitly to Emily's high sense of duty and pro- 
priety. And now that you are here, Greorge, I trust 
that it may be for your advantage and for ours." 

Then he pressed his cousin's hand, if not with 
affection, at least with sincerity. 

"I'm sure it is to be all right now," said George, 
calculating whether he would be able to escape to 
London for a few days, so that he might be able to 
arrange that little matter with Mr, Hart. They couldn't 
suppose that he would be able to leave London for 
two years without a day's notice! 

Sir Harry got out of the carriage at the front door, 
and desired Cousin George to follow him into the 
house. He turned at once into the small room where 
George had drunk the sherry, and desired that Lady 
Elizabeth might be sent to him. 

"My dear," said he, "I have brought George back 
with me. We will do the best that we can. Mrs. 
Quick will have a room for him. You had better tell 

Sir Harry Hotspur. "^1 


Emily, and let her come to me for a moment before 
she sees her cousin." This was all said in Geoige's 
hearing. And then Sir Hany went, leaving his cousin 
in the hands of Lady Elizabeth* 

"I am glad to see you back again, George/' she 
said, with a melancholy voice. 

Cousin George smiled, and said, that **it would 
be all right." 

''I am sure I hope so, for my girl's sake* Bat 
there must be a great change, George*" 

''No end of a change," said Cousin George, who 
was not in the least afraid of Lady Elizabeth. 

Many things of moment had to be done in the 
house that day before dinner. In the first place there 
was a long interview between the father and daughter. 
For a few minutes, perhaps, he was really happj 
when she was kneeling with her arms upon his knees, 
thanking him for what he had done, while tears of 
joy were streaming down her cheeks. He would not 
bring himself to say a word of caution to her. Would 
it not be to paint the snow white to caution her as to 
her conduct? 

''I havQ done as you bade me in everything," he 
said. ''I have proposed to him that he should go to 
Scarrowby. It may be that it will be your home for 
a while, dear." 


She thanked him and kissed him again and again. 
She would be so good. She would do all she could 
to deserve his kindness. And as for George, — "Pray, 
Papa, don't think that I suppose that it can be all 
done quite at once." Nevertheless it was in that direc- 
tion that her thoughts erred. It did seem to her that 
the hard part of the work was already done, and that 
now the pleasant paths of virtue were to be trod with 
happy and persistent feet. 

" You had better see him in your mother's presence, 
dearest, before dinner; and then the awkwardness will 
be less afterwards." 

She kissed him again, and ran from his room up 
to her mother's apartment, taking some back stairs 
well known to herself, lest she should by chance meet 
her lover after some undue and unprepared fashion. 
And there she could sit down and think of it all! 
She would be very discreet He should be made to 
understand at once that the purgation must be 
thorough, the reform complete. She would acknow- ^ 
ledge her love to him, — her great and abiding love; 
but of lover's tenderness there could be but little, — 
almost none, — till the fire had done its work, and the 
gold should have been separated from the dross. She 
had had her way so far, and they should find that she 
had deserved it 


Before dinner Sir Harry wrote a le^r to his 
lawyer. The mail-cart passed through the village on 
its way to Penrith late in the evening, and Hke^e was 
time for him to save the post. He thought it in- 
cumbent on him to let Mr. Boltby know that be had 
changed his mind; and, though the writing of the 
letter was not an agreeable task, he did it oX once. 
He said nothing to Mr. Boltby directly aboqt his 
daughter, but he made it known to that gentieman 
that Cousin George was at present a guest at Humble- 
thwaite, and that he intended to pay all the debts 
without entering into any other specific engagements. 
Would Mr. Boltby have the goodness to make out a 
schedule of the debts? Captain Hotspur should be 
instructed to give Mr. Boltby at once all the neces- 
sary information by letter. Then Sir Harry went on 
to say that perhaps the opinions formed in reference 
to Captain Hotspur had been too severe. He was 
ashamed of himself as he wrote these words, but still 
they were written. If the blackamoor wj^ to be 
washed white, the washing must be carried out at all 
times, at all seasons, and in every possible maoner, 
till the world should begin to see that the blackness 
was going out of the skin. 

Cousin George was summoned to meet the girl who 

loved him in her mother's morning-room, before they 

dressed for dinner. He did not know at all in what 


way to conduct himself. He had not given a moment's 
thought to it till the difficulty flashed upon him as she 
entered the apsutment. But she had considered it aB. 
She came up to him quickly, and gave him her lips to i 
kisS) standing there in her mother's presence. 

"George," she said, "dear George! I am so glad 
that you are here." 

It was the first; and it should be the last, — till the 
fire had done its work; till the fire should at least have 
done so much of its work as to make the remainder 
easy and fairly sure. He had little to say for himself, 
but tnuttered something about his being the happiest 
fellow in the world. It was a position in which a man 
could hardly behave well, and neither the mother nor 
the daughter expected much from him. A man cannot 
bear himself gracefully under the weight of a pardon 
as a woman may do. A man chooses generally that 
it shall be assumed by those with whom he is closely 
connected that he has done and is doing no wrong; 
and, when wronged, he professes to forgive and to 
forget in silence. To a woman the act of forgiveness, 
either accepted or bestowed, is itself a pleasure. A 
few words were then spoken, mostly by Lady Elizabeth, 
and the three separated to prepare for dinner. 

The next day passed over them at Humblethwaite. 
HaJJ verf quietiy, but with some im\d ^^.\.\^l^Oas>fCL. "^xs- 


Harry told his cousin of the letter to his lawyer, and 
desired George to make out and send by that da/s 
post such a schedule as might be possible on the spur 
of the moment. 

"Hadn't I better run up and see Mr. Boltby?" 
said Cousin George. 

But to this Sir Harry was opposed. Let any calls 
for money reach them there. Whatever the calls might 
be, he at any rate could pay them. Cousin George 
repeated his suggestion; but acquiesced when Sir Hany 
frowned and showed his displeasure. He did make 
out a schedule, and did write a letter to Mr. Boltby. 

"I think my debt to Mr. Hart was put down as 
3,250/.," he wrote, "but I believe I should have added 
another 350/. for a transaction as to which I fancy he 
does not hold my note of hand. But the money is 

He was fool enough to think that Mr. Walker's 
claim might be liquidated after this fashion. In the 
afternoon they rode together, — ^the father, the daughter, 
and the blackamoor, and much was told to Cousin 
George as to the nature of the property. The names 
of the tenants were mentioned , and the boundaries of 
the farms were pointed out to him. He was thinking 
all the time whether Mr. Hart would spare him. 

But Emily Hotspur, thou^Vi ^"^ \aA \^^!«ol tSwia 


^ticent and quiet in her joy, though she was resolved 
D be discreet, and knew that there were circumstances 
a her engagement which would for a while deter her 
rom being with her accepted lover as other girls are 
nth theirs, did not mean to estrange herself from her 
:ousin George. If she were to do so, how was she to 
issist, and take, as she hoped to do, the first part in 
hat task of refining the gold on which they were all 
LOW intent? She was to correspond with him when he 
iras at Scarrowby. Such was her present programme, 
nd Sir Hairy had made no objection when she 
leclared her purpose. Of course they must understand 
ach other, and have communion together. On the 
tiird day, therefore, it was arranged they two should 
^alk, without other company, about the place. She 
Qust show him her own gardens, which were at some 
listance from the house. If the truth be told, it must 
>e owned that George somewhat dreaded the after- 
loon's amusement; but had she demanded of him to 
it down to listen to her while she read to him a 
ermon, he would not have refused. 

To be didactic and at the same time demonstrative 
>f affection is difficult, even with mothers towards their 
hildren, though with them the assumption of authority 
reates no sense of injuiy. Emily specially desired to 
loint out to the erring one the paths of virtue^ and ^^^ 
9 do so without being oppressive. 


"It is SO nic6 to have you here, George/' she said. 

"Yes, indeed; isn't it?" He was walking beside 
her, and as yet they were within view of the house. 

"Papa has been so good; isn't he good?" 

"Indeed he is. The best man I know out," said 
George, thinking that his gratitude would have been 
stronger had the Baronet given him the money and 
allowed him to go up to London to settle his own 

"And Mamma has been so kind! Mamma is very 
fond of you. I am sure she would do anything for 

"And you?" said George, looking into her face. 

"I! — As for me, George, it is a matter of course 
now. You do not want to be told again what is and 

ever must be my first interest in the world." 

"I do not care how often you tell me." 

"But you know it; don't you?'* 

"I know what you said at the waterfall, Emily." 

"What I said then I said for always. You may 
be sure of that. I told Mamma so, and Papa. If they 
had not wanted me to love you, they should not have 
asked you to come here. I do love you, and I hope 
that some day I may be your wife." 

She was not leaning on VAs «im, \iw\. ^& ^^ «^\s 


she stopped, and looked stedfastly into his face. He 
pat out his hand as though to take hers; but she 
shook her head, refusing it. "No, George; come on. 
I want to talk to you a great deal. I want to say ever 
so much, — now, to-day. I hope that some day I may 
be your wife. If I am not, I shall never be any man's 

"What does some day mean, Emily?" 

"Ever so long; — years, perhaps." 

"But why? A fellow has to be consulted, you 
know, as well as yourself. What is the use of waiting? 
I know Sir Harry thinks I have been very fond of 
pleasure. How can I better show him how willing I 
am to give it up than by marrying and settling down 
at once? I don't see what's to be got by waiting?" 

Of course she must tell him the truth. She had 
no idea of keeping back the truth. She loved him 
with all her heart, and was resolved to marry him ; but 
the dross must first be purged from the gold. "Of 
course you know, George, that Papa has made ob- 

"I know he did, but that is over now. I am to go 
and live at Scarrowby at once, and have the shooting. 
He can't want me to remain there all by myself.' 

"But he does; and so do I." 




In order that he might be made clean by the firt 
of solitade and the hammer of hard work. She could 
not quite say this to him. "You know, George, your 
life has been one of pleasure." 

"I was in the army, — for some years." 

"But you left it, and you took to going to races, 
and they say that you gambled and are in debt, and 
you have been reckless. Is not that true, George?" 

"It is true." 

"And should you wonder that Papa should be 
afraid to trust his only child and all his property to 
one who, — who knows that he has been reckless? But 
if you can show, for a year or two, that you can give 
up all that " 

"Wouldn't it be all given up if we were married?" 

"Indeed, I hope so. I should break my heart 
otherwise. But can you wonder that Papa should 
wish for some delay and some proof?" 

"Two years!" 

"Is that much? If I find you doing what he 
wishes, these two years will be so happy to me! We 
shall come and see you, and you will come here. I 
have never liked Scarrowby, because it is not pretty, 
as this place is; but, oh, how I shall like to go there 
now! And when you are here. Papa will get to be so 
fond of you. You will be like a real son to him. 
Only you must be steady." 


"Steady! by Jove, yes. A fellow will have to be 
ady at Scarrowby." The perfume of the clean- 
ess of the life proposed to him was not sweet to 


She did not like this, but she knew that she could 
t have everything at once. "You must know," she 
d, "that there is a bargain between me and Papa, 
old him that I should tell you everything." 

"Yes; I ought to be told everything." 

"It is he that shall fix the day. He is to do so 
ich, that he has a right to that. I shall never press 
n, and you must not." 

"Oh, but I shall." 

"It will be of no use; and, George, I won't let 
u. I shall scold you if you do. When he thinks 
It you have learned how to manage the property, 
d that your mind is set upon that kind of work, 
d that there are no more races, — mind, and no 
tting, then, — then he will consent. And I will tell 
a something more if you would like to hear it." 

"Something pleasant, is it?" 

"When he does, and tells me that he is not afraid 
give me to you, I shall be the happiest girl in all 
igland. Is that pleasant?— No, George, no; I will 
t have it." 

"Not give me one kiss?" 

*I gave yon one when you came, \o ^My« i^^ 



that in truth I loved you. I will give you anotii< 
when Papa says that everything is right." 

"Not till then?'' 

"No, George, not till then. But I shall lov 
you just the same. I cannot love you better thai 
I do." 

He had nothing for it but to submit, and wa 
obliged to be content during the remainder of thd 
long walk with talking of his future life at Scarrowbj 
It was clearly her idea that he should be head-farma 
head-steward, head-accountant, and general workmai 
for the whole place. When he talked about the game 
she brought him back to the plough; — so at least hi 
declared to himself. And he could elicit no sympath] 
from her when he ren^inded her that the nearest mee 
of hounds was twenty miles and more from Scarrowby 
"You can think of other things for a while," she said 
He was obliged to say that he would, but it did seen 
to him that Scarrowby was a sort of penal servitudi 
to which he was about to be sent with his own con 
currence. The scent of the cleanliness was odious t( 

"I don't know what I shall do there of an even 
ing," he said. 

"Read," she answered; "there are lots of bodks 

and you can always have the magazines. I will senc 

them to you." It was a very dt^^r^j v^q^-^^^kA. oC lifi 



Ifcr him, but he could not tell her that it would be 
Hdbsolutely unendurable. 

"- When their walk was over, — a walk which she 
gipever could forget, however long might be her life, so 
■tamest had been her purpose, — he was left alone, and 
took another stroll by himself. How would it suit 
3iim? Was it possible? Could the event "come oflf?" 
^ght it not have been better for him had he allowed 
lis other loving friend to prepare for him the letter to 
Ac Baronet, in which Sir Harry's munificent oflfer 
-would have been accepted? Let us do him the justice 
to remember that he was quite incapable of under- 
standing the misery, the utter ruin which that letter 
would have entailed upon her who loved him so well. 
He knew nothing of such sufferings as would have 
been hers — as must be hers, for had she not already 
fallen haplessly into the pit when she had once allowed 
herself to fix her heart upon a thing so base as this? 
It might have been better, he thought, if that letter 
had been written. A dim dull idea came upon him 
that he was not fit to be this girl's husband. He 
could not find his joys where she would find hers. 
No doubt it would be a grand thing to own Humble- 
thwaite and Scarrowby at some future time; but Sir 
Harry might live for these twenty years, and while 
Sir Harry lived he must be a slave. And then he 
thought that upon the whole he Aiked livxc^ ^o^tocw 


better than Emily Hotspur. He could say what III 
chose to Lucy, and smoke in her presence, own tbM 
he was fond of drink, and obtain some sjnBpathy for 
his ''book" on the Derby. He began to feel alreadf 
that he did not like sermons from the girl of his 

But he had chosen this side now, and he must go 
on with the game. It seemed certain to him that his 
debts would at any rate be paid. He was not at all 
certain how matters might go in reference to Mr. 
Walker, but if matters came to the worst the Baronet 
would probably be willing to buy him off again with 
the promised income. Nevertheless, he was not com- 
fortable, and certainly did not shine at Sir Han/s 
table. "Why she has loved him, what she has seen 
in him, I cannot tell," said Sir Harry to his wife that 

We must presume Sir Harry did not know how it 
is that the birds pair. 


Geoiige Hotspur yields. 

On the morning of Cousin George's fourth day at 
[umblethwaite, there came a letter for Sir Harry, 
'he post reached the Hall about an hour before the 
me at which the family met for prayers, and the 
^ers were taken into Sir Harry's room. The special 
^tter of which mention is here made shall be given to 
le reader entire: — 

"— , LiNcoLN^s Ikn Fields, 

"34/* Nov. i8d— . 

"My dear Sir Harry Hotspur, — ^I have received 
our letter in reference to Captain Hotspur's debts, 
nd have also received a letter from him, and a list 
f what he says he owes. Of course there can be no 
lifficulty in pajdng all debts which he acknowledges, 
f you think proper to do so. As far as I am able to 
adge at present, the amount would be between twenty- 
ve and thirty thousand pounds. I should say nearer 
lie former than the latter sum, did I not know that 
lie amount in such matters always goes on increasing. 
Tou must also understand that I cannot guarantee 
lie correctness of this statement. 


"But I feel myself bound in my duty to go further 
than this , even though it may be at the risk of your 
displeasure. I presume from what you tell me that 
you are contemplating a maniage between Geoige 
Hotspur and your daughter; and I now repeat to you, 
in the most solemn words that I can use, my assur- 
ance that the marriage is one which you should not 
countenance. Captain Hotspur is not fit to many! 
your daughter." 

When Sir Harry had read so far he had become 
very angry, but his anger was now directed against 
his lawyer. Had he not told Mr. Boltby that he had 
changed his mind; and what business had the lawyer 
to interfere with him further? But he read the letter 
on to its bitter end: — 

"Since you were in London the following facts 
have become known to me. On the second of last 
month Mr. George Hotspur met two men, named 
Walker and Bullbean, in the lodgings of the former, 
at about nine in the evening, and remained there ditf* 
ing the greater part of the night, playing cards. BnV 
bean is a man well known to the police as a card- 
sharper. He once moved in the world as a gentleman. 
His trade is now to tout and find prey for gamblers. 
Walker is a young man in a low rank of life^ who 
had some money. George Hotspur on that night von 
between three and four hundred pounds of Walker^ 


Honey; and Bullbean, over and above this, got for 
limself some considerable amount of plunder. Walker 
B now prepared, and very urgent, to bring the circum- 
stances of this case before a magistrate , having found 
out, or been informed, that some practice of cheating 
"Was used against him; and Bullbean is ready to give 
evidence as to George Hotspur's foul play. They have 
hitherto been restrained by Hart, the Jew whom you 
met. Hart fears that were the whole thing made 
public, his bills would not be taken up by you. 

"I think that I know all this to be true. If you 
conceive that I am acting in a manner inimical to your 
family, you had better come up to London and put 
yourself into the hands of some other lawyer. If you 
can still trust me, I will do the best I can for you. I 
should recommend you to bring Captain Hotspur with 
you, — ^if he will come. 

"I grieve to write as I have done, but it seems to 
me that no sacrifice is too great to make with the ob- 
ject of averting the fete to which, as I fear. Miss Hot- 
qrar is bringing herself. — My dear Sir Harry Hotspur, 
[ am, very faithfully yours, 

"John Boltby." 

It was a terrible letter! Gradually, as he read it 
ind re-read it, there came upon Sir Harry the feeling 
faat he might owe, that he did ON?e, iViai^afc c^\Xax\^^ 


would owe to Mr. Boltby a very heavy debt of 
tude. Gradually the thin glazing of hope with 
he had managed to daub over and partly to h 
own settled convictions as to his cx>usin's charac 
away, and he saw the man as he had seen him 
his interview with Captain Stubber and Mr. H; 
must be so. Let the consequences be what they 
his daughter must be told. Were she to be ki 
the telling, it would be better than that she she 
handed over to such a man as this. The mis 
which had come upon them might be the death 
and of her; — but better that than the other, 
in his chair till the gong sounded through the 
for prayers; then he rang his bell and sent in \ 
Lady Elizabeth that she should read them 
absence. When they were over, word was 1 
that he would breakfast alone, in his own rooD 
receiving that message, both his wife and d; 
went to him; but as yet he could tell them n 
Tidings had come which would make it necess< 
he should go at once to London. As soon as 
fast should be over he would see George H 
They both knew from the tone in which the 
was pronounced that the "tidings'' wei'e of their 
bad, and that they had reference to the sins c 

"You had better read that letter,'' he said i 


George was in the room. As he spoke his face was 
V>wards the fire, and in that position he remained. 
The letter had been in his hand, and he only half 
turned round to give it. Greorge read the letter slowly, 
and when he had got through it, only half under- 
Standing the words, but still knowing well the charge 
which it contained, stood silent, utterly conquered. ''I 
suppose it is true?" said Sir Harry, in a low voice, 
&cing his enemy. 

''I did win some money," said Cousin George. 

"And you cheated?" 

"Oh dear no; — nothing of the sort" 

But his confession was written in his face, and was 
heard in his voice, and peeped out through every 
motion of his limbs. He was a cur, and denied the 
accusation in a currish manner, hardly intended to 
create belief. 

"He must be paid back his money," said Sir Harry. 

"I had promised that," said Cousin George. 

"Has it been your practice, sir, when gambling, to 
pay back money that you have won? You are a 
scoundrel, — a heartless scoundrel, — to try and make 
your way into my house when I had made such liberal 
offers to buy your absence. To this Cousin George 
made no sort of answer. The game was up. And 
had he not already told himself that it was a game 
tiiat he should never have attempl&d \.o ^^"^ '-'-^^ 


will leave this bouse if you please, both of us, at eleven. L 
We will go to town together. The carriage will be II. 
ready at eleven. You had better see to the packing 1^ 
of your things, with the servant." 

'' Shall I not say a word of adieu to Lady Elizabeth?" 

''No, sir! You shall never speak to a female in 
my house again." 

The two were driven over to Penrith tog^ar, and 
went up to London in the same carnage, Sir Hany 
paying for all expenses without a word. Sir Hany 
before he left his house saw his wife for a moment, 
but he did not see his daughter. ''Tell her/' said 
he, "that it must be, — must be all over." The de- 
cision was told to Emily, but she simply refused to 
accept it. "It shall not be so," said she, flashing oat 
Lady Elizabeth endeavoured to show her that her father 
had done all he could to further her views — ^had been 
ready to sacrifice to her all his own wishes and con- 

"Why is he so changed? He has heard of some 
new debt. Of course there are debts. We did not 
suppose that it could be done all at once, and so 
easily." She refused to be comforted, and refused to 
believe. She sat alone weeping in her own room, and 
swore, when her mother came to her, that no con- 
sideration, no tidings as to George's past miscondnct, 
should induce her to break bfii faith to the man to 


rhom her word had been given; — "my word, and 
^apa's, and yours/' said Emily, pleading her cause 
rith majesty through her tears. 

On the day but one following there came a letter 
rem Sir Harry to Lady Elizabeth, very short, but 
elling her the whole truth. ''He has cheated like a 
ommon low swindler as he is, with studied tricks at 
ards, robbing a poor man, altogether beneath him in 
tation, of hundreds of pounds. There is no doubt 
.bout it. It is uncertain even yet whether he will not 
»e tried before a jury. He hardly even denies it A 
Teature viler, more cowardly, worse, the mind of man 
annot conceive. My broken-hearted, dearest, best 
larling must be told all this. Tell her that I know 
rhat she will suffer. Tell her that I shall be as crushed 
iy it as she. But anything is better than degradation 
uch as this. Tell her specially that I have not de- 
ided without absolute knowledge.'' Emily was told. 
Phe letter was read to her and by her till she knew it 
ilmost by heart. There came upon her a wan look 
»f abject agony, that seemed to rob her at once of her 
'outh and beauty; but even now she would not yield, 
^he did not longer affect to disbelieve the tidings, but 
aid that no man, let him do what he might, could be 
GO far gone for repentance and forgiveness. She 
voiild wait. She had talked of waiting two years. 
>be would be content to wait ten. ^N\«X ^of^s^ V^ 


had cheated at cards! Had she not once told her 
mother that should it turn out that he had been a 
murderer, then she would become a murderer's wife? 
She did not know that cheating at cards was worse 
than betting at horse-races. It was all bad, — very bad. 
It was the kind of life into which men were led by 
the fstult of those who should have taught them better. 
No; she would not marry him without her father's 
leave: but she would never own that her engagement 
was broken, let them afEx what most opprobrious name 
to him they might choose. To her card-sharpers seemed 
to be no worse than gamblers. She was quite sure 
that Christ had come to save men who cheat at cards 
as well as others. 

As Sir Harry and his cousin entered the London 
station late at night, — it was past midnight, — Sir Harry 
bade his companion meet him the next morning at 
Mr. Boltby's chambers at eleven. Cousin George had 
had ample time for meditation, and had considered 
that it might be best for him to cut up a little rongfa." 

"Mr. Boltby is my enemy," he said, "and I don't 
know what I am to get by going there." 

"If you don't, sir, I'll not pay one shilling for you." 

"I have your promise. Sir Harry." 

"If you are not there at the time I fix, I will pay 
nothing, and the name may go to the dogs." 

TTien they both went U> th^ station hotel, — not 


tiogether, but the younger following the elder's feet, — 
^nd slept for the last time in their lives under one 

Cousin George did not show himself at Mr. Boltby's, 
being still in his bed at the station hotel at the time 
named; but at three o'clock he was with Mrs. Morton. 

For the present we will go back to Sir Harry. He 
was at the lawyer's chambers at the time named, and 
Mr. Boltby smiled when told of the summons which 
had been given to Cousin George. By this time Sir 
Harry had acknowledged his gratitude to Mr. Boltby 
over and over again, and Mr. Boltby perhaps, having 
no daughter, thought that the evil had been cured. He 
was almost inclined to be jocular, and did laugh at 
Sir Harry in a mild way when told of the threat. 

"We must pay his debts. Sir Harry, I think." 

"I don't see it at all. I would rather face every- 
thing. And I told him that I would pay nothing." 

"Ah, but you had told him that you would. And 
then those cormorants have been told so also. We 
had better build a bridge of gold for a falling enemy. 
Stick to your former proposition, without any reference 
to a legacy, and make him write the letter. My clerk 
shall find him to-morrow.'* 

Sir Harry at last gave way; the lucky Walker re- 
ceived back his full money, BuVVbe^xv'^ ^^^b's. ^^Ssjc- 


iquity and all; and Sir Hany returned to Humble- 

Cousin George was sitting in Mrs. Morton's room 
mih a very bad headache five days after his arrival 
in London, and she was reading over a manuscript 
which she had just written. "That will do, I think,'' 
she said. 

"Just the thing," said he, without raising his head. 

"Will you copy it now, George?" 

"Not just now, I am so seedy. I'll take it and do 
it at the club." 

"No; I will not have that. The draft would cer- 
tainly be left out on the club table; and you would go 
to billiards, and the letter never would be written." 

"I'll come back and do it after dinner." 

"I shall be at the theatre then, and I won't have 
you here ip my absence. Rouse yourself and do it 
now. Don't be such a poor thing." 

"That's all very well, Lucy; but if you had a sick 

headache, you wouldn't like to have to write a d d 

letter like that." 

Then she rose up to scold him, being determined 
that the letter should be written then and there. 
"Why, what a coward you are; what a feckless, use- 
less creatiu-e! Do you think that I have never to go 
for hours on the stage, with the gas in a blaze around 
me, and my head ready to split? And what is this? 


life, he had thought too much of his house and his 

It would have been better that he should have 
>¥aited till the letter was in his pocket before he 
returned home, because, when he reached Humble- 
thwaite, the last argument was wanting to him to 
prove to Emily that her hope was vain. Even after 
his arrival, when the full story was told to her, she 
held out in her resolve. She accepted the truth of 
that scene at Walker's rooms. She acknowledged that 
her lover had cheated the wretched man at cards. 
After that all other iniquities were of course as nothing. 
There was a completeness in that of which she did 
not fail to accept, and to use the benefit When she 
had once taken it as true that her lover had robbed 
his inferior by foul play at cards, there could be no 
good in alluding to this or that lie, in counting up 
this or that disreputable debt, in alluding to habits of 
brandy-drinking, or even in soiling her pure mind 
with any word as to Mrs. Morton. It was granted that 
he was as vile as sin could make him. Had not her 
Saviour come exactly for such as this one, because of 
His great love for those who were vile; and should 
not her human love for one enable her to do that 
which His great heavenly love did always for all men? 
Every reader will know how easily answerable was the 
argument. Most readers will also know how hard it 


be written at once if it is to be written." Th«i 
turned himself wearily to her writing-desk, and copi 
the words which she had prepared for him. 

The letter was addressed to Mr. Boltby, and 
ported to be a renunciation of all claim to Miss Hol'i 
spur's handy on the understanding that his debts weiii 
paid for him to the extent of 25,000/., and that 
allowance were made to him of 500/. a year, s 
on him as an annuity for life, as long as he shouUJj 
live out of England. Mr. Boltby had given him to 
understand that this clause would not be ezacte4| 
unless circumstances should arise which should make' 
Sir Harry think it imperative upon him to demand ib 
execution. The discretion must be left absolute wiA 
Sir Harry; but, as Mr. Boltby said. Captain Hotspur 
could trust Sir Harry's word and his honour. 

"If I'm to be made to go abroad, what the devil 
are you to do?" he had said to Mrs. Morton. 

"There need be no circumstances," said Mrs. Mor- 
ton, "to make it necessary." 

Of course Captain Hotspur accepted the terms on 
her advice. He had obeyed Lady Altringham, and 
had tried to obey Emily, and would now obey Mrs. 
Morton, because Mrs. Morton was the nearest to him. 

The letter which he copied was a well-written letter, 
put together with much taste, so that the ignoble 
compact to which it ga\e as^eivX. ^VvovM seem to be as 

0» HUMBLETHWAITfi. 2&() 

cot^sc he would accept the payment of his debts. 
Of coarse he would take an income when offered to 
bim. What else was he to do? How was he to live 
decently without an income? All these evils had 
happened to him because he had been expected to 
live as a gentleman without proper means. In fact, 
he was the person who had been most injured. Her 
Either, in his complete, in his almost abject tenderness 
towards her, could not say rough words in answer to 
an these arguments. He could only repeat his asser- 
tion over and over again that the man was utterly 
unworthy of her, and must be discarded. It was all 
as nothing. The man must discard himself. 

"He is false as hell," said Sir Harry. 

'^And am I to be as false as hell also? Will you 
love me better when I have consented to be untrue? 
And even that would be a lie. I do love him. I must 
love him. I may be more wicked than he is, because 
I do so. But I do." 

Poor Lady Elizabeth in these days was worse than 
useless. Her daughter was so strong that her weak- 
iless was as the weakness of water. She was driven 
hither and thither in a way that she herself felt to be 
disgraceful. When her husband told her that the 
oousin, as matter of course, could never be seen again, 
ihe assented. When Emily implored her to act as 

Sir ffsrry /Ms/ttr. V^^ 



''You can stay here and see me eat my dinner 
you like. I shall not ask you to share it, because 
consists of two small mutton chops, and one w 
keep me up through Lady Teazle." 

"I've a good mind to come and see yon," said*'^^ 

"Then you'd better go and eat your own 
at once." 

"I don't care about my dinner. I should have i 
bit of supper afterwards." 

Then she preached to him a sermon; not quite 
such a one as Emily Hotspur had preached, but mod 
more practical, and with less reticence. If he went 01 
living as he was living now, he would "come to grief."! 
He was drinking every day, and would some day find 
that he could not do so with impunity. Did he knof 
what delirium tremens was? Did he want to go to 
the devil altogether? Had he any hope as to his fatuic 

"Yes," said he, "I hope to make you my wife." I 
She tossed her head, and told him that with all the 
will in the world to sacrifice herself, such sacrifice 
could do him no good if he persisted in making him- 
self a drunkard. "But I have been so tried these last 
two months. If you only knew what Mr. Boltby and 
Captain Stubber and Sir Harry and Mr. Hart were 
altogether. Oh, my G — 1" But he did not say a 
word about Messrs. Walkei ^sid B\illbean, The poor 


Oman who was helping him knew nothing of Walker 
\il Bullbean. Let us hope that she may remain in 
1^ ignorance. 

Cousin George, before he left her, swore that he 
ould amend his mode of life, but he did not go to 
^ Lady Teazle that night. There were plenty of men 
ow back in town ready to play pool at the club. 


him, he sent for her, and read it to her* S 
without a word. Then he put it into h^ I 
she read the sentences herself, slowly, 
another, endeavouring as she did so to find 
by which she might stave off the con 
which she knew that her father would attem 

''It must be all over now" said he at L 

She did not answer him, but gazed in 
with such a look of woe that his hesat w 
She had found no argument. There had i 
the whole letter one word of love for her. 

"My darling, will it not be better that 
meet the blow?" 

"I have met it, all along. Some day, j 
might be diflferent." 

"In what way, dearest? He does not e^ 
to hope so himself." 

"That gentleman in London, Papa, ^ 
paid nothing for him unless he wrote like 
had to do it. Papa, you had better just 
to myself. I will not trouble you by men 


"But Emily- 


"Well, Papa?" 


** Mamma and I cannot bear that you should sufifer 

*^I must saSeTy and silence is the easiest I will go 
sw and tiiink about it Dear Papa, I know that you 
i,Ye always done everything fen: the best'' 

He did not see her again that evening. Her mother 
as with her in her own room, and of course tibey were 
Iking about Cousin George for hours together. It 
^uld not be avoided, in spite of what Emily had her- 
df said of the expediency of silence. But she did 
3t once allude to the possibility of a future marriage. 
s the man was so dear to her, and as he bore their 
une, and as he must inherit her father's title, could 
Dt some almost superiiuman exertion be made for his 
dvation? Surely so much as that might be done, if 
ley all made it the work of their lives. 

**lt must be the work of my life. Mamma," she 

Jn^ydy fUizabeth forbore from telling her that there 
^B nQ side on whioji) she could approach him. Tbe 
^or girl herself, however, must have f^ tljUtt it was 
>, As sh^ thougl^ of it all she reminded Jierself that, 
ippgh they were sq;>aiated miles asunder, still she 
>ald prs^y for him. We need not doub( this at least, 
-that to him who utters thom prayers of intercession 
re of avaiJ. 


On the following morning she was at breakfast, and 
both her father and mother remarked that sometfaiiv 
had been changed in her dress. The father only knef 
that it was so, but the mother could have told of eveij 
ribbon that had been dropped, and every ornament that 
had been laid aside« Emily Hotspur had lived a while,! 
if not among the gayest of the gay, at least among tho 
brightest of the bright in outside garniture^ and havii^ 
been asked to consult no questions of expense, had 
taught herself to dress as do the gay and bright aod 
rich. Even when George had come on his last 
wretched visit to Humblethwaite, when she had kno^ 
that he had been brought there as a blackamoor per- 
haps just capable of being washed white, she had not 
thought it necessary to lessen the gauds of her attiie. 
Though she was saddened in her joy by the knowledge 
of the man's iaults, she was still the rich daughter of 
a very wealthy man, and engaged to marry the future 
inheritor of all that wealth and riches. There was then 
no reason why she should lower her flag one inch be- 
fore the world. But now all was changed with herl 
During the night she had thought of her apparel, and 
of what use it might be during her future life. She 
would never more go bright again, unless some miracle 
might prevail, and he still might be to her that which 
she had painted him. Neither father nor mother, as 
she kissed them both, 8aida.vioxd^&\xiV\«cE3i5pearaiK»» 


They must take her away from Hmnblethwaite, change 
the scene, try to hiterest her in new pursuits; that was 
what they had determined to attempt. For the present, 
they would let her put on what clothes she pleased, and 
make no remark. 

Early in the day she went out by herself. It was 
now December, but the weather was fine and dry, and 
she was for two hours alone, rambling through the park. 
She had made her attempt in life, and had failed. She 
owned her failure to herself absolutely. The image 
had no gold in it; — none as yet. But it was not as 
other images, which, as they are made, so must they 
remain to the end. The Divine Spirit, which might 
from the first have breathed into this clay some particle 
of its own worth, was still efficacious to bestow the gift. 
Prayer should not be wanting; but the thing as it now 
was she saw in all its impurity. He had never loved 
her. Had he loved her he would not have written 
words such as those she had read. He had pretended 
to love her in order that he might have money, that 
his debts might be paid, that he might not be ruined. 
''He hoped," he said in his letter, ''he hoped that 
his cousin might be made happy by a splendid alliance I *' 
She remembered well the abominable, heartless words. 
And this was the man who had pledged her to truth 
and firmness, and whose own truth and firmness she 
had never doubted for a moment, eveii ^V«\ "^^bs^s^- 


ledging to herself the necessity of her pledge to hin 
He had never loved her; and, though she did not aj 
so, did not think so, she felt that of all his sins that 
sin was the one which could not he forgiven. 

What should she now do with herself, — ^how bear 
herself at this present moment of her life? She did 
not tell herself now that she would die , though as she 
looked forward into life all was so drearj to her, tbat 
she would fain have known that death would give an 
escape. But there were duties for her still to do. 
During that winter ramble, she owned to hosdf for the 
first time that her father had been right in his judgment 
respecting theu: cousin, and that she, by her pertina- 
city, had driven her father on till on her account he 
had been forced into conduct which was distasteful to 
him. She must own to her fother that he had been 
right; that the man, though she dearly loved him still, 
was of such nature that it would be quite unfit that 
she should many him. There might still be the 
miracle; her prayers were still her own to give; of them 
she would say nothing to her father. She wotdd 
simply confess to him that he had been right, and then 
beg of him to pardon ha: the trouble she had caused 

''Papa,*^ sne said to him the following morning 
*'may I come to you?" SVie caxxva va.^ ^siA ow this oc- 


Lsion sat down at his rig^t hand. ''Of coarse, you 

ive been righti Fap^i/' she said. 


"We have both been right, dearest, I hope." 

"No, Papa; I have been wrong! I thought I knew 
im, and I did not I thought wh^ you told me that 
s was so bad, that you were believing false people; 
id, Papa, I know now that I should not have loved 
im as I did; — so quickly, like that." 

"Nobody has blamed you for a moment. . Nobody 
as thought of blaming yon^" 

"I blame myself enough; I can tell you that I 
>el as though I had in a way destroyed myself." 

"Do not say that, my doling*" 

"You will let me speak now; will you not, Papa? 
wish to tell you everything, that you may understand 
U that I feel. I shall never get over it 

"You will, dearest; you wHI, indeed. 

"Never I Perhaps I shall live on; but I feel that 
; has killed me for this world. I don't know how a 
irl is to get over it when she has said that she has 
>ved any one. If they are married, then she does 
ot want to get over it; but if they are not, — ^if he 
leserts her, or is unworthy, or both, — what can «b& 
lo then, but just go on thinking oi it ^X\r-^^% ^^^^ 




Sir Harry used with ber all the old accustomed 
arguments to drive such thoughts out of her head. 
He told her how good was Grod to His creatures, and, 
specially, how good in curing by the soft hand of 
time such wounds as those from which she was suffer- 
ing. She should ''retrick her beams," and once more 
"flame in the forehead of the morning sky," if only 
she would help the work of time by her own endeavonis. 
"Fight against the feeling, Emily, and try to conquer 
it, and it will be conquered." 

"But, Papa, I do not wish to conquer it. I should 
not tell you of all this, only for one thing." 

"What thing, dearest?" 

"I am not like other girls, who can just leave them- 
selves alone and be of no trouble. You told me that 
if I outlived you " 

"The property will be yours; certainly. Of course, 
it was my hope, — and is, — that all that shall be settled 
by your marriage before my death. The trouble and 
labour is more than a woman should be called on to 
support alone." 

"Just so. And it is because you are thinking of 
all this, that I feel it right to tell you. Papa, I shaO 
never be married." 

"We will leave that ioi i^cie ^xe^eaSi, Btnily." 


"Very well; only if it would make a change in your 
willy you should make it. You will have to be here. 
Papa, after I am gone, — probably." 

"No, no, no." 

"But, if it were not so, I should not know what to 
do. That is all, Papa; only this, — that I beg your 
pardon for all the trouble I have caused you." Then 
she knelt before him, and he kissed her head, and 
blessed her, and wept over her. 

There was nothing more heard from Cousin George 
at Humblethwaite, and nothing more heard of him for 
a long time. Mr. Boltby did pay his debts, having 
some terribly hard struggles with Mr. Hart and Captain 
Stubber before the liquidations were satisfactorily ef- 
fected. It was very hard to make Mr. Hart and Cap- 
tain Stubber understand that the Baronet was paying 
these debts simply because he had said that he would 
pay them once before, under other circumstances, and 
tliat no other cause for their actual payment now 
existed. But the debts were paid, down to the last 
farthing of which Mr. Boltby could have credible tid- 
ings. "Pay everything," Sir Harry had said; "I have 
promised it." Whereby he was alluding to the pro- 
mise which he had made to his daughter. Everything 
was paid, and Cousin George was able to walk in ai\.<L 
out of his club, a free man, — asid ^X. >asEk&^ -j^astfs?^ 


happy, — with an annuity of five hundred pounds a 
yearl Nothing more was said to him as to the neces- 
sity of expatriation. 



The End 

Among playgoing folk, in the following April there 
was a great deal of talk about the matrlage of that 
very favourite actress, Mrs. Morton. She appeared in 
the playbills as Mrs. George Hotspur, late Mrs. Morton. 
Very many spoke of her familiarly, who knew her only 
on the stage,--^as is the custom of men in speaking of 
actresses, — and perhaps some few of these who spoke 
of her did know her personally. ''Poor Lucy!" said 
one middle-aged gentleman over fifty, who spent four 
nights of every week at one theatre or another. "When 
she was little more than a child they married her to 
that reprobate Morton. Since that she has managed 
to keep her head above water by hard work; and now 
she h^ gone and inarried Mother worse than the 

''She is older now, and will be able to mannge 
George,'' said another. 

"Manage him! If anybody can mahage to k6ep 
him out of debt, or from drink either^ Til eat bim." 

"But he must be Sir George when old Sir Harry 


dies/' said he who was defending the pradence of the 

''Yes, and won't have a penny. Will it help her 
to be able to put Lady Hotspur on the bills? Not in 
the least. And the women can't forgive her and visit 
her. She has not been good enough for that. A grand 
old family has been disgraced, and a good actress de- 
stroyed. That's my idea of this marriage." 

''I thought Greorgy was going to marry his cousin — 
that awfully proud minx," said one young fellow. 

''When it came to the scratch, she would not have 
him," said another. "But there had been promises, 
and so, to make it all square, Sir Harry paid his 

"I don't beUeve a bit about his debts being paid,'' 
said the middle-aged gentleman who was fond of going 
to the theatre. 

Yes, George Hotspur was married: and, as for as 
any love went with him, had married the woman he 
liked best. Though the actress was worlds too good 
for him, there was not about her that air of cleanliness 
and almost severe purity which had so distressed him 
while he had been forced to move in the atmosphere 
of his cousin. After the copying of the letter and the 
settlement of the bills, Mrs. Morton had found no dif- 
ficulty in arranging matters as she pleased. She had 
known the man perhaps better than any one else had 


known him; and yet she thought it best to many him. 
We must not inquire into her motives, though we may 
pity her fate. 

She did not intend, however, to yield herself as an 
easy prey to his selfishness. She had also her ideas 
of reforming him, and ideas which, as they were much 
less grand, might possibly be more serviceable than 
tiiiose which for a while had filled the mind and heart 
of Emily Hotspur. '< George," she said, one day to 
him, '^what do you mean to do?" This was before 
the marriage was fixed; — when nothing more was fixed 
than that idea of marriage which had long eidsted be- 
tween them. 

''Of course we shall be spliced now," said he. 

''And if so, what then? I shall keep to the stage, 
of course." 

"We couldn't do with the 500/. a year, I suppose, 
any how?" 

"Not very weU, I'm afraid, seeing that as a habit 
you eat and drink more than that yourself. But, with 
all that I can do, there must be a change. I tell you 
for your own sake as well as for mine, unless you can 
drop drinking, we had better give it up even yet." 
After that, for a month or two under her auspices, he 
did "drop it," — or at least so far dropped it as to in- 
duce her to run the risk. In April they were married, 


and she must be added to the list of women who 
have sacrificed themselves on behalf of men whom 
they have known to be worthless. We need not pnrsiK 
his career further; but we may be sure, that though 
she watched him very closely^ and used a power over 
him of which he was afraidi istfll he went gnuloalllf 
from bad to worse, and was found at last to be uttedj 
past redemption. He was one who in earfy life had 
never known what it was to take delight in poslpoih 
ing himself to another; and now there was no spark 
in him of love or gratitude by which fire could be. 
kindled or warmth created. It had come to that with 
him, — that to eat and to drink was all that waa left to 
him; and it was coming to that too, that the latter of 
these two pleasant recreations would soon be all that 
he had within his power of enjojonent. There are 
such men; and of all human beings they are the most 
to be pitied. They have intellects; they do think; the 
hours with them are terribly long; — and they have no 

The Hotspurs of Humblethwaite remained at home 
till Christmas was passed, and then at once started 
for Rome. Sir Harry and Lady Elizabeth both felt 
that it must be infinitely better for their girl to be 
away; and then there came the doctor's slow advice. 
There was nothing radically arnis^ with Miss Hotspur, 
the doctor said; bat it ^ovAdbfe better for her to be 


taken elsewhere. She, knowing how her father loved 
his home and the people around him, begged that she 
might be allowed to stay. Nothing ailed her, she aaid, 
Bave only that ache at the heart which no journey to 
Rome could cure. "What's the use of it. Papa?" 
she said. "You are unhappy because I'm altered. 
Would you wish me not to be altered after what has 
passed? Of course I am altered. Let ns take it as it 
is, and not think about it." She had adopted certain 
practices in life, however, which Sir Harry was de- 
termined to check, at any rate for the time. She 
spent her days among the poor, and when not with 
them she was at church. And there was always some 
dreary book in her hands when ihey were together in 
the drawing-room after dinner. Of church-going and 
visiting the poor, and of good books. Sir Harry ap- 
proved thoroughly; but even of good things such as 
these there may be too much. So Sir Harry and 
Lady Elizabeth got a courier who spoke all languages, 
and a footman who spoke German, and two maids, of 
whom one pretended to speak French, and had trunks 
packed without number, and started for Rome. All 
that wealth could do was done; but let the horseman 
be ever so rich, or the horseman's daughter, and the 
stud be ever so good, it is seldom they can ride fast 
enough to shake off their cares. 

Sir Hmny Hfl^m: tn 


In Rome they remained tOl April , and while tfaej 
were there - the name of Cousin George was never 
once mentioned in the hearing of Sir Hany. Be- 
tween the mother and daughter no do^^t there was 
speech concerning him. But to Emiljr's mind he 
was always present. He was to her as a thlqg 
abominable, and yet necessarily tied to her by bonds 
which she could never bivst asunder. She felt like 
some poor princess in a tale, married to an ogre from 
whom there was no escape. She had given herself 
up to one utterly worthless, and she knew it But 
yet she had given herself, and could not revoke the 
gift. There was, indeed, still left to her that possibility 
of a miracle, but of that she whispered nothing even 
to her mother. If there were to be a mirac]e, it must 
be of Grod; and at God's throne she made her 
whispers. In these days she was taken about from 
sight to sight with apparent willingness. She saw 
churches, pictures, statues, and ruins, and seemed to 
take an interest in them. She was introduced to the 
Pope, and allowed herself to be apparelled in her very 
best for that august occasion. But, nevertheless, the 
tenor of her way and the fashions of her life, as was 
her daily dress, were grey and sad and solemn. She 
lived as one who knew that the backbone of her life 
was broken. Early in April they left Rome and went 
north, to the Italian lakes, and settled themselves for a 


lile at Lugano. And here the news reached them of 
e marriage of George Hotspur. 

Lady Elizabeth read the marriage among the 
Lvertisements in the Times , and at once took it to 
r Harry, withdrawing the paper from the room in 
xxumner which made Emily sure that there was some- 
ing in it which she was not Intended to see. But 
r Harry thought that the news should be told to her, 
id he himself told it. 

''Already married!" she said. ''And who is the 


"You had better not ask, my dear." 

"Why not adt? I may, at any rate, know her 


"Mrs. Morton. She was a widow, — sLhd an 

"Oh yes, I know," said Emily, blushing; for in 
ose days in which it had been sought to wean her 
^m George Hotspur, a word or two about this lady 
id been said to her by Lady Elizabeth under the 
structions of Sir Harry. And there was no more 
id on that occasion. On that day, and on the fol- 
wing, her father observed no change in her; and 
e mother spoke nothing of her fears. But on the 
ixt morning Lady Elizabeth said that she wa& \!lc^^ -%!& 
e had been. "She is thinking oi Yani ^^S\— ^^'Ki'e^V 


she wispered to her husband. He made no reply, bat 
sat alone, out in the garden, with his newspaper be- 
fore him, reading nothing, but cursing that cousin of 
his in his heart 

There could be no miracle now for her I Even 
the thought of that was gone. The man who had 
made her believe that he loved her, only in the last 
autumn, — though indeed it seemed to her that yean 
had rolled over since, and made her old, worn-out, 
and weary; — ^who had asked for and obtained the 
one gift she had to give, the bestowal of her veiy 
self; who had made her in her baby folly believe that 
he was almost divine, whereas he was hardly human 
in his lowness, — ^this man, whom she still loved in a 
way which she could not herself understand, loving 
and despising him utterly at the same time, — ^was 
now the husband of another woman. Even he, she 
had felt, would have thought something of her. But 
she had been nothing to him but the means of escape 
from disreputable difficulties.. She could not sustain 
her contempt for herself as she remembered this, 
and yet she showed but little of it in her outward 

"ril go when you like, Papa," she said when the 
days of May had come, ''but Td soon^ stay here 
a litde longer if you wouldn't mind." There was no 


Jk of going home. It i¥as only a question whether 
ley should go further north , to Lucerne | before the 
arm weather came. 

"Of course we will remain; why not?" said Sir 
[arry. "Mamma and I like Lugano amazingly.'' Poor 
ir Harry. As though he could have liked any place 
xcept Humblethwaitel 

Our story is over now. They did remain till the 
torching July sun had passed over their heads, and 

LUgust was upon them; and then they had buried 

er in the small Protestant cemetery at Lugano » and 
ir Harry Hotspur was without a child and without an 

He returned home in the early autumn » a grey, 
rorn-out, tottering old man, ¥rith large eyes full of 
orrow, and a thin mouth that was seldom opened to 
tter a word. In these days, I think, he recurred to 
is early sorrow, and thought almost more of his son 
[lan of his daughter. But he had instant, pressing 
nergy left to him for one deed. Were he to die now 
athout a further will, Humblethwaite and Scarrowby 
rovld go to the wretch who had destroyed him. What 
^as the title to him now, or even the name? His 
dfe's nephew was an Earl with an enormous rent-roll, 
omething so large that Humblethwaite and Scarrowby 
D him woiiid be little more than ^Adixioxo^ \s^<^xa< 


But to this young man Humblethwaite and Scarrowby 
were left, and the glories of the House of Hotspur 
wtf e at an end. 

And so the stoiy of the House of Humblethwaite 
has been told. 


\ ' 

-1^ V_* v^ O j